Sorting through my wildflower photos and reading accounts of the blizzard in the northeast makes me sigh. It’s going to be a bad year for floral ecstasy. I’ll have no place to go to escape the bad jokes and plain stupid remarks of the Otherworld where the fairies mug you and keep you away through whole seasons of birth and death, keep you away from the very important matter Not fairies like Ariel or Puck, but Calibans who push keys, send shocks down wires, and drink large amounts of coffee to fight off the compulsion to run from all the boredom. They know nothing of the world lost to us this year.
There won’t be any mariposa tulips. Just grass that dies in the first heat and cacti that bear no prickly pears.