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    Maha Magnolia Mind Paid Member

    I am not prey to the swoon of spring. As a seasoned gardener of thirty years, I have learned to mute its siren call, not from fear of seduction as much as dread of another ten-month-long growing season, full of malevolent surprise, unending work, and rampant change. When April comes, “breeding lilacs out of the dead land,” I take perverse delight in telephoning my friends in northern Vermont to be soothed by their reports of bone chilling cold, naked branches, and three inches of fresh snow. In our West Coast garden, spring pounces in early February, coaxing groundhogs out of their winter burrows. Caught in the thick tide of vernal upwelling, I yearn for an anchor in the present moment, to prevent my being swept away by the flood of the seasons. The primeval magnolia is such a mooring plant for me. More »
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    The Three Sisters Paid Member

    I dreamed that dream again, the scary one that comes down like a silent raptor in the late watches of the summer night, around the August full moon. I wake up in a cold sweat, pinned down by the talons of my summer nightmare. Alone and cut off, I am lost in a weed-free, vast modern cornfield, with no beginning or end. Dead Monarch butterflies litter the ground. Gigantic corn plants creak and sway high above me, heavy with their burden of flawless genetically-engineered corn. In this nightmare, I am a severed being, shrunken to a wizened mouse, sure that I will never escape this field of dreams. More »