Everything but the roses

Nearly everything has bloomed in the yard now, the crocus, the daffodils, the tulips, the jasmine, vibernum, snapdragons, all the fruit trees, wisteria, daisies. The peony hasn't bloomed, but I don't expect it to this year, since it was just transplanted last year. First year roots, second year shoots, IIthird year flowers. My radishes are growing and there are microgreens in the old bathtub and peas climbing up the lopsided trellis I put together one night before Sunday music at the Longhorn. The onions and garlic look happy, though the asparagus is, so far, just one lone feathery stalk, smaller than a pencil. 

I feel wilted myself, three days sick with some strange thing that shows up mostly in a kind of light-headedness and exhaustion. Bonus sore throat and headache, but no other symptoms, really. It leaves me feeling confused, like something that I already can't remember just happened and has slipped away from me already. My whole life is throat coat tea, juice of carrots and greens, beans and rice just for something solid to eat, plain except for some shreds of kale, a little salt and pepper. 

There is reading, though, Wrecker by Summer Wood now, and before that Growing a Farmer by Kurt Timmermeister, a book I had to put down for a while out of annoyance over some thing or another, which I can't remember any more. In the end, I was happy to have read it, kept telling everyone what I learned about raw milk as a result. Wrecker is just a pleasure, no complaints, the kind of book you get through before you're even better. Halfway through already and still sore-throated and spacey, it looks like I'll do just that.