Patience in an impatient world.  I can wait a long time before making a left turn, much to the derision of the drivers behind me.  Well, lives are involved.  Now I wait as the manuscript is opened and read. I am resisting calling up & asking, have you received it yet?

Meanwhile, in the garden, the lone iris continues to put forth bloom after bloom.  I’m told it’s a stellar year for irises.  The parsley seems as prolific as mint.  The feverfew–no dandelion puffs–is growing tall, and next to the columbine grows a plant I don’t know.  It’s a vine of some sort.  The sweet pea firmly refuse to be trained onto their strings, and I can’t tell if I planted a seed that now looks like a maple leaf.  The cosmos–I will not buy more plants, I will not buy more plants–await the earth. Hmm. I have to find them a sunny dry spot, but this year, I’ve planted a lot of little moisture lovers.

So now comes the period in the garden akin to revision.  I must take stock, deadhead, trim, and douse the ground with compost tea.  Maybe rearrange the paragraphs, I mean, pots.  Transplant the oregano which is needs more room.  The last quarter moon cycle is good for these things.  How much easier is planting than revising.

I’ve been thinking of a new book, a botanical sort of novel.

A bee is walking across the concrete, struggling.  Is this more of the untimely death of honey bees?  Or is it merely foraging among the fallen flowers from last night’s wind?  Can I help it?  Another one buzzes near.  It’s nearly eight in the morning.  I think the bee has broken one of its feet.

My help is of little help, more traumatic as I tried to get it onto the ground, but it firmly came back to the concrete.  I’ve lost track of it.  Hopefully it’s resting.  Euthanasia occurred to me but recovery still remains a hope.