in which minutiae write the day

this is a day of reading: like an envelope, the stapelia opens a flap and a speckled letter

dense with words unfolds one page at a time. clematis quills scrawl an annotated manuscript

around plumeria wood.  i am gathering leaves for mulch, a sign that summer is almost over

at last.  ivy settles in the palm of my hand apparently growing in nothing but fallen debris.

I spot geranium cedric morris raising an unexpected question among ferns. the more

i look, the more the patch writes minutiae. i pause, thinking about small beginnings

while a currawong, high above me in the jacaranda tree, declaims again


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in which patches dot the patch

when the wind comes from the north, it carries an unexpected force to so small a patch

picking up debris effortlessly and tossing it down without effort. to work against such

carelessness requires sore knees and patience for each small piece of earth is somehow changed,

as if discarded. drooping leaves ask for water, yellow ones for food and all the while

birds hop about scavenging for worms. this wind finds plastic in the air and slams

it down among my plants as if to show us we have not cared enough. i watch for each

casual gust, planning which plants will patch up the patch, bending like a crab apple


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