Tired of the Chaotic Universe
The woods, especially, are messy. Trees wily nily everywhere. Trees and shrubs intermixed. Invasives. Leaves on the ground.
The greenhouse, however, is a paragon of order. All the plants are labeled. They’re all the same size. They sit in cells in plug trays that are all the same size. They are lined up on tables, those started first on one end of the table, and those started last on the other end of the table.
Outside, all the blades of grass are different sizes. The grass is mixed up with clover. Plantain. Buttercup. There’s mud.
Some of the grass is nice and green. Some of it is yellowing and dieing. There’s worms.
The greenhouse plants come from seeds that are lined up alphabetically in identically size cardboard boxes, each taxonomical family given its own box. The seed envelopes have lot numbers.
Outside, the daffodils are tardy blooming. In Hot Springs, they bloomed weeks ago. Across the ridge, my neighbor Joyce’s daffodils bloomed last week. Mine linger, still, it seems, in about to bloom phase – a hint of yellow visible through the sepels. Visible, but not showing. The full color and beauty of their blossom waiting on what I don’t know – a few more degrees of warmth? A bit more time? Drier soil? Wetter soil? More chlorophyll? Their coyness does not amuse me. I want bursts of electric color in my yard, turned on with the predictability of Christmas lights. I don’t want my expectations played with by the vague wants of a tender yellow blossom.
The inhabitants of the greenhouse sprout at the same time, blossom at the same time, and bear fruit at the same time. In exchange for this courtesy I give them all the same amount of fertilizer, water, heat and light. Our expectations of one another are quite clear.
The ladybugs are confused. They spent most of the day on the windowpanes. In the evening, they congregate at the reading lamp. They crawl around this way and that. Back and forth, sometimes over each other. They don’t seems to know why they’re inside, or what they want know that they’re hear.
Outside, the ants crawl in single file, evenly spaced, all with the same destination.