One of those after-rain mornings: old-ice gray, the world feeling like a fish tank, cold to the touch. The spring trees have a cold smolder, their warmth gone, though they still glow--roses in an old refrigerator.

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My local newspaper's headline yesterday was "Boston Police Closing In On Bomber."  This is based on finding, in the thousands of frames of the thousands of videos taken in Boston on 4//15, two that show a man leaving a package in each of the bomb sites. We'll see what happens now. It's now four days later. Six people are awake or not in Boston hospitals, coming to grips in dream or in this morning with the fact that they don't have a leg. And the bomber? What are his thoughts this morning? I can't--no, I won't--imagine my way into that mind or what now passes for a mind.

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Cleaning up the garden yesterday,  combing with my gloved hands through the flower beds, sifting the young plants through my fingers, gathering the brown leaves, the gum tree's itchy balls, handful after handful, then dumping them into a bucket, crushing them to make space, then reaching into the flower beds again. Wonderful each time I uncovered the growing tips of the young plants, each time a surprise--each tip's shining newness, pink and green, fresh from the earth's--no other word is as accurate--womb.




 


Comments

Maria Giura
04/19/2013 9:51pm

Coming into your daily reflections at the end of this week. The strange yet real combination of the Boston bombing, of you watching your grandkids off to school, your musings on creation and crucificixion and Cain, and the creations in your own backyard. This is life, no? The brutal and the sweet side by side.

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