Up On Hawthorne Hill by Richard DeRosa

Kale and Gladiola Thoughts
Lead to Reflections on Humankind

From my study window I can just make out the withered, bedraggled remains of one of our kale plants. Otherwise, all is snow-mantled and covered up and tucked in for the winter. Down in the barn, where I hung out for a few minutes yesterday staring at the bundled glad bulbs drooping from nails in the rafter, my thoughts turned to, well, the indescribably self-destructive instincts that humanity insists on turning upon itself. Not all that sure what dry glad bulbs and weather-beaten kale have to do with humankind’s worst inflictions upon itself, but there must be some sort of synaptic thing going on because I often find myself ruminating on things existential when in the company of produce.

It reminds me of the time quite a few years ago that I voiced an interest in attending a Buddhist retreat of some sort. My better half nixed that idea by reminding me, as if I did not know it, that I was strange enough already—no need to feed the beast.