Arboretum Diary

"A spade: Fac et spera.
 A pick: Me, too. I always say to myself: work in hope.
 Flowers: Is it going to be a sunny day?
 A sunflower: If I want it to be." – Renard, from "The Garden"










6/16


A single spiderwort standing along the narrow trail at the top of the west knoll prairie can hear only so much. It's three ears are soft and sensitive and knows everything purple but not the oak grub. The bedstraw is close and quiet, the forget me not is in hiding, also alone, and the alumroot, stick straight, tough to the roots, seemingly aloof. A prairie-full of spiderwort, however, knows and hears

everything.  They duck in to hear one another, slightly twisting their spider-like stems. Their three ears welcome the soft chatter among the grass and aspens.  The sounds of your thoughts bound in among them and they send them back soft and purple, then they rise up to the sky like wisps of prairie smoke.