First night of the full moon.
Planting day. Little brown pots, dirty fingernails, and an intoxicating dank smell everywhere.
The Cup and Saucer Vine seeds are tough shells that require nicking with a knife. The Night-Scented Tobacco seeds are crimson dust, and the Amish Cockscomb luminous black orbs.
Planting by the biodynamic calendar has forced me to bide time, waiting for an auspicious day for flowering plants. Then to sort the seeds: Indoors, outdoors, early spring, late spring. Plot the locations by way of sun and shadows. These are the only maps I never have difficulty following.
Per the knowledge this garden is brimming with lead, only flowers will go into the ground. And everything else into pots and the sundry containers I have slowly been dragging here from all corners of Brooklyn.
Tomorrow I will plant the outdoor flowers. Tuesday, herbs. I cannot think today of dead-eyed politicians, austerity, drones, and species gasping for breath. Only soil and seeds, the matter of life. The moon rises slowly in the southeast and squats triumphant on the horizon. Yes, there are things man cannot destroy. Soil and seeds, a woman singing by moonlight.
This is all I know. Whisper goodnight to three dozen brown pots and crawl into bed.