Herbs

I played in the dirt this afternoon; I planted my herbs. It was so nice kneeling in the sun with my hands plunged into the soil. I coaxed the little plants out of their purple pots and nestled them in nice holes with some fertilizer worked in. I also put a nice thick layer of peat moss around my two tiny blueberry bushes. They have white flowers on them. I'm assuming that means blueberries will follow. And I planted a row of scallion seeds with some tiny leek plants mixed in. I hope Jack Frost stays away so my little herbs don't get frostbite. It's a little early to plant but I couldn't resist.

8 May--Paul Gauguin, Matamoe, or Landscape with Peacocks. The raucous cries of the peacocks woke him before dawn. "If they weren't so damned expensive, I'd shoot every single one," said Paul as he flung back the sheet and stood in the bluish light of the bedroom. He heard the drip drip of the night's rain draining from the roof into the bamboo rain pipe and then the gurgle as it drained into the cistern. Without giving it a thought, he listened to the hollow sound of the water in the stone cistern, trying to guess the level by the sound. There had to be enough water in there. It had been raining so much in the three weeks since he had arrived on the island that his leather shoes were moldy. Every day his houseboy scrubbed them with a brush and set them in the sun to dry. Every night the rain came and the leather grew fuzzy. By the time he sailed back home he probably would only have the thick soles left to tie on his feet. Shaking off the thought of cold and frozen winter of Paris, Paul wrapped a length of cloth around his hips and padded into the kitchen to make coffee.

Good night.
--Barbara