Gradually. the yard is being covered with small whte flowers, all on stems about 3 inches tall. Their reach is all the way from Cedar lawn cemetery (which came first, their residence in the graveyard or from the front yards?) where they are packed in drifts of solid white, flecked with occasional pink to purple-ish outliers. It betokens a secondary fairy-like continuum, hidden and waiting beneath the more boisterous grasses and weeds that will follow soon. And frankly many folks would consider this elfin realm to be one of the weed family: only that it has found a way to stay, and seduce its human overseers with beauty. And the shear wonderment o it (I have momentarily stumbled over the word sheer/shear, bespeaks the constant hidden resources of language: diaphanous but leaning against a cut–which follows shortly, the blooming beauty and mystery of it notwithstanding). But for now they have escaped from their subterranean holding tank, their temporal strictures. How much of human life has such hidden-ness but may never find its time to bloom?. Or the time scale either so narrow or so vast we can’t really determine when it comes of time.
Something is always coming. And whether it can readily be seen may be immaterial front the vantage of the hidden.