A gray sky

What if, instead of trying to understand our dreams, we saw that we were understood by them? That's a paraphrase of something Thomas Moore said in "Original Self." I'm taking it further: what, then, if we saw we were understood by the art that comes out of us? I like these ideas very much, but don't know yet how to use them.

Spring still holds back. It will be warm today. Thunderstorms. Weightiness. Trees inching towards bloom. Spring is understood by the small flowers it makes.

On the way to New York I saw large patches of bloodroot in bloom in the woods along the roadsides. Yesterday I looked: my own single flower was gone, a little yellow nub on top of the stem was all that was left. I did not even see fallen petals. Now the leaf is starting to unfurl its strange flat palm.