We have a freshly cut bouquet of lilacs on the dining table just now, and the reason I’m telling you this is because I didn’t put them there. Quetzal put them there. I used to put May lilacs on the table. In the 1980’s in Batesville, Virginia I put lilacs on the table. In the 1990’s in Colorado I did. In the early 2000’s in Columbus I did. But these last years in New Hampshire: Have I cut lilacs for the table? No.
And it’s just five minutes ago that I realized this. And I don’t understand why. How is it that I gave up on lilacs? How is it that I didn’t even think about lilacs?
My forgetting to place lilacs on the table suggests that I’m floating around in the land of diminished wonder.
How does one keep the wheels wholly on? How does one live always in the land of sustained and vigorous wonder?
Does the black crow at 15 years forget to fly to the tiptop of the mountain for no other reason than to be there? Do worms forget the good lands 8 inches over?
Someone tell me: How does one always remember not to fall off the earth?