15 May 2007

Luigi came and strimmed, in that way of his that Italians would call approssimativo. I sat and weeded, in that way of mine that I would call approssimativo. Some of my onions have emerged from their tangle of weeds. Most of the artichokes haven’t, but can be easily identified by the globes themselves which I’m leaving to burst into flower. The giant alliums have lost their purple flowerlets and are looking alien. The irises are dead and sad. The lawns are patchy and dry.
But everything, everything is overshadowed by the rose explosion. When there’s so much exuberant beauty, who cares about the rest?


	Rome, May 15 2007



Luigi came and strimmed, in that way of his that Italians would call approssimativo. I sat and weeded, in that way of mine that I would call approssimativo. Some of my onions have emerged from their tangle of weeds. Most of the artichokes haven’t, but can be easily identified by the globes themselves which I’m leaving to burst into flower. The giant alliums have lost their purple flowerlets and are looking alien. The irises are dead and sad. The lawns are patchy and dry. But everything, everything is overshadowed by the rose explosion. When there’s so much exuberant beauty, who cares about the rest?

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