Sunday

May



Air scented, perfumed, travels on small winds through the valley today.  There is an old wild cherry as filled with blossoms this year as I've ever known it to be.  To be under this tree is to enter a perfumery.  To be under this tree is to take a vow, or to become one.

And the small white phacelia in flower at the ridge on George's Gap has thickened to cover these high hillsides under the small budding trees completely.  I may walk through it.  I may pick one of the small blossoms.  I may hold and raise this small white flower to my face to look closely and breath deeply above it.

All the same, the self indifferent to the logic of all sensory appeals is overwhelmed, and enters a dream.  Leaving for another kind of hour botanical facts of petal, the leaf or stem.