March Is A Tomboy With Tousled Hair,

You Can't Be Suspicious Of A Tree, Or Accuse A Bird Or A Squirrel Of Subversion Or Challenge The Ideology Of A Violet.

I Grew Up In Those Years When The Old West Was Passing And The New West Was Emerging. It Was A Time When We Still Heard Echoes And Already Saw Shadows, On Moonlit Nights When The Coyotes Yapped On The Hilltops, And On Hot Summer Afternoons When Mirages Shimmered, Dust Devils Spun Across The Flats, And Towering Cumulus Clouds Sailed Like Galleons Across The Vast Blueness Of The Sky. Echoes Of Remembrance Of What Men Once Did There, And Visions Of What They Would Do Together.

Strip The Hills, Drain The Boglands, And You Create Flood Conditions Inevitably. Yet That Is What We Have Been Doing For Years.

In A Painful Time Of My Life I Went Often To A Wooded Hillside Where May Apples Grew By The Hundreds, And I Thought The Sourness Of Their Fruit Had A Symbolism For Me. Instead, I Was To Find Both Love And Happiness Soon Thereafter. So To Me [the May Apple] Is The Mandrake, The Love Symbol, Of The Old Dealers In Plant Restoratives.

Nothing In Nature Is As Simple As It Sometimes Seems When Reduced To Words.