Pulling weeds up from a blind confession

[sovay]

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 . . .

Comments

[strange-selkie.livejournal.com]

Could you send us some quince blossoms? They're excellent in fertility charms, and quince have gone out of the market for the year here. I'll email you our address if you don't have it hanging about.

You could probably also get your mother to breathe on them or something. We'll send wheat and mead!


You are missed!

[sovay]

I'll email you our address if you don't have it hanging about.

Please do. The search function on my e-mail no longer works, which is immensely unhelpful when looking for things like addresses. I will put some quince blossom in the mail to you tomorrow.