Not Enough and All I Have

Schools are closed so kids are in the grass looking for shamrocks; this and other venerations for St. Patrick.

Week 2 of sickness. There are not enough tests for the virus, instead they give a flu and strep test; both negative. The greenhouse work continues but I am at home. After the grower's meeting, he came back and said everything is pushed back. Thousands and thousands of plants we have already potted must stop growing in order to be saved. He opens the vents and turns off the heat. From February to June, they make the money to ive from all year long. Not shipping these plants will mean financial devastation. This and other repercussions of pandemic.

Stay home. Breathe if you can. Prepare the gardens for a long time of need.

My little family, plus the boyfriend, all under one roof for the foreseeable future, quietly settle into different parts of the house to do their online school work. Kyle chirps away all day on the phone, hosting one conference call after another. All these little orbits give you time to see “the real work” as Wendell Berry sees it. I'm not sure how to do it yet, but I see it.

Affordable gasoline and nowhere to go. But we have things to burn, beloved. Don't we?

Having nothing to say and a million ways to go on saying it. One branch at a time, a climbing cardinal. Venus hangs out with the moon. Woodsmoke drifts beyond rooftops and steals a dance from the stars. Pretty soon poetry will both not be enough and all we have.

All these letters pile on the desk – unopened – unsent – you stay blameless that way. The writing follows trails cut by woodland creeks. We pass accidental orchards and crumbling steeples. Growth overtakes the way in hungry places. Writing is the offering. It may be all I have.