Do yo ever sit there in your house on a afternoon like this, listening as I am to the drone of the fan as it sweeps side to side, sifting cool air through the room, and wonder what seeds were planted in your childhood, to bring your garden to it’s present state of general disarray?

Well, I know a lot of people do, but not me. I once heard a wise person say something like this:

If you’re walking down the road, and a big old rottweiler comes running up and bites you on the backside and won’t let go, you don’t stop and look down and ask him if he had a challenging puppyhood. Whether he had to push and shove and struggle to finally get weaned, because the bitch was indifferent and it was a rough litter anyway. Whether maybe his inner puppy needs a cookie. You get the dog off your ass and move on.

Anyhoo, here’s a poem.

The Wind, One Brilliant Day

The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.

“In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I’d like all the odor of your roses.”

“I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.”

“Well then, I’ll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain.”

the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:
“What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?”

Antonio Machado
Translated by Robert Bly