Pulling weeds up from a blind confession

I am covered in sweat and quince blossom. This is one of those factually correct, rather less poetic than they deserve statements; the back yard has a quince tree which was busy molting as I finished mowing the lawn. After which I weeded around Rosabella, the late-blooming dogwood in the side yard; I wore my hat, but leaves and tiny green caterpillars still ended up in my hair. And scratches on my arms from all the twigs and branches I gathered out of the way. And when I blow my nose, I get pollen. Nature wins. If I start to root or flower, I'll let you know.

I did celebrate May Day this year; nineweaving and I went to Theatre@First's next-to-last-night of The Winter's Tale, music by sen_no_ongaku, which was both seasonally apt and (Autolycus for the win!) really awesome. But I completely forgot to post anything for the day. I don't know why that should matter; Livejournal is the world's most cheap-ass ritual, but there you are. So I think A.L. Lloyd's "The Derby Ram" properly belongs to midwinter, but I offer it here anyway: it was stuck in my head all the time I was surrounded, sometimes inconveniently, by the fruits of spring, and therefore I say it counts.

And indeed, my lads, it's true, my lads—I never was known to lie
And if you'd been in Derby, you'd seen him the same as I . . .