It is spring, John Keats, and you are dead

In a mood the past couple days, so I'll keep it to pictures. Something about the precise thread of mistrustful and mercurial has really exemplified the parts of my personality that are concerned with obsessive and repetitive cleaning. So here is a little showing off.


Little raspberry sorbet violas in amongst the fancy lettuce.




There's something about a geranium in a clay pot that really makes me happy.
I made new prayer flags out of some scraps of fabric I had lying around. They look a little ragged here, but I'm quite happy with them.
Last year's Nithavellir black violets have come back a little purpleish, but I still love them.

I meant to take a before and after picture, but please, let me impress upon you the eleventy-fifteen metric tons of dead leaves, glass, wax, beer tops, pumpkin bits (?!) and other refuse I cleared off this porch. I even dusted the rockface.

My camera is broken, which makes even this attempt to photograph a brief trout lily melancholic, fuzzy and fartsy.