The Beetles of Japan have orgied themselves, while gorging, in an iridescent sex-food holocaust that has left only laces where there should be leaves. Their numbers are so vast there is nothing to be done - pick them, drown them, bag in them in rotting sacs that reek like corpse. They ate the garden again, and so did the slugs, it is wartime in the dream of eden.
Read MoreStick Season
It is a willful act to not be repulsed and irritated by the withdrawal of splendor. It was easy to be cradled by summer, sung to while the insects hummed and flowers unfurled in symphonies of color, buoyed high in a sensual embrace weaving in from the horizon’s rich line. The absence of obvious delight angers our spoiled system.
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A Proper Spring
All of the glistening, wet, forgotten things are put away in their proper places, and then, finally, it’s time to sort through the garage to find the rake. We comb the grasses and break the seal of the soil to let the sun and air in, uncovering spots that had been made dead with fallen leaves. Raking is a vigorous rubdown after the long, tight squeeze of winter, like scrubbing a newborn foal with a handful of hay, or a mother’s rough tongue.
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The Winter That Wasn't
We come from reticent, stony, struggle-loving stock, and this is an indulgence that cannot be mentioned — there is remarkably little talk about the green grass where there should be snow. Ayup, crazy weather. Five months without long johns, boots without socks, the hat hasn’t seen action for weeks, and our entire system of survival lays dormant in the closet. We look at each other and shrug, wondering what will become us of now, fearful of too much luxury.
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