Watch the flocks of wild phlox appear, disappear.

C–who got his undergrad degree at the same university that I’m getting my grad degree– jokes that he sees more of the campus’s flowers now, through my pictures, than he ever did as a student. To which remark I roll my eyes and invariably reply with some idiotic crack about stopping and smelling the roses or seeing the forest for the trees. (oh, so so clever.)  And then I take another picture.

Here’s what has been catching my eye lately:

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My title is from “Talking Back to the Mad World” by Sarah C. Harwell. I think this is what I love so much about these flowers–they are a gift. They are unexpected, I don’t do anything to grow them. I wander by and they are just there–beautiful, someone else’s responsibility, I just enjoy.

I will not tend. Or water,
pull, or yank,
I will not till, uproot,

fill up or spray.

The rain comes.
Or not. Plants: sun-fed,
moon-hopped, dirt-stuck.

Watch as flocks
of wild phlox

appear, disappear. My lazy,
garbagey magic
makes this nothing

I love
the tattered
camisole of
nothing. The world
runs its underbrush
course fed by
the nothings I give it.

Wars are fought.
Blood turns.
Dirt is a wide unruly room.

–Talking Back to the Mad World, Sarah C. Harwell
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