On a walk home from school a few years ago, E and I salvaged some prickly pear pads from a large plant that had been hit by a car. We planted them in the yard and tried to avoid hitting them with soccer balls or lawn mowers, but otherwise ignored them. This long, cool spring, they went into major production mode. We've counted twelve new pads, all a brilliant light green, with pudgy tender milk spines. (I don't know what botanists call them. A biologist friend says the pudgy spines wannabes will fall out to make room for spiky spines.)
In other yard activity, the hot pink lilies are in bloom, looking pretty intent on luring pollinators.
On the screened-in front porch, nondescript lumps of infinite potential are blossoming into thin-walled round things. You'd think this wouldn't surprise me anymore, but when I finished making the pot below, I marveled that homo sapiens likes to reorganize finely weathered silicate-bearing rock into globular forms.
The Banality of Stupid
4 days ago