Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Every time I'm tempted to feel the least bit guilty that I spend every spare moment in Mt. Auburn when I'm in the Boston area, I see something like this and that feeling that I might be missing something or someone elsewhere is erased.
The prosaic takes on new and significant meaning for me here. A robin on a tombstone is a robin transformed, and an artist transfixed.
There is unexpected humor everywhere Hodge and I turn. She motioned to her left, laughing...
Something's come between us.
That one gets two butts up from The Mallards.
It's so lovely, it wouldn't have to smell so good, too, but Viburnum odoratum perfumes every turn in April.
And the yellow-rumps never look finer than in cherry blossoms.