1.
The garden is full of roses: pale pink moss, Munstead Wood, Abraham Darby, Lady of Shalott, New Dawn, unnamed apricot climber, Mme Alfred Carriére, the Lark Ascending, deep pink moss, and Reine des Violettes just in bud. I am filling the jugs. I can almost hear the sound of their petals falling as they age.
2.
We are setting up a dyeing area on a partly-covered deck which once held a hot-tub. I am slow to this work, thinking out the steps, taking books out of the library to help me determine equipment and space. For years I have dyed with indigo and woad on a long cedar bench (what was left of a tree from which boards had been sawn), in the open, wringing the lengths of fabric out on the grass. But I have bags of rose madder, marigold, pomegranate, and enough indigo to dye my bedroom curtains, white linen bought 25 years ago, and worn a little thin. What do I need? I have been thinking out the steps. A big stockpot from the thrift store, tall buckets from the recycling centre, a two-burner hotplate, a long folding table, a rack of metal shelves, big jars saved after we’d eaten the olives, the artichoke hearts. I will start this weekend with a pot of rose madder and enough cotton to make comforters for the bunkbeds I’ve ordered to replace the crib, the cots, the mattresses on the floor.
3.
In the night I was reading Maggie Helwig’s extraordinary book, Encampment: Resistance, Grace, and an Unhoused Community, and thinking how some people enact goodness daily, in the name of a god, or love, or some alchemy I don’t understand. How some people meet others where they are, without the expectation of anything back, but with hope for something better for all. That everyone deserves dignity, some meaningful shelter, enough to eat, respect of person, and that if you believe this, you do the work. She is doing the work.
4.
At the lake this morning, two female mergansers having a serious conversation on a small log by the shore. We watched for for a few minutes. They didn’t stop talking, didn’t stop even as they saw us and swam away to another log, where they turned their backs and continued their discussion. Were they waiting for the mother and her young we’ve seen twice now? Were they talking about their own lack of offspring, perhaps picked off by eagles, ravens, the otter I saw last summer as I swam in the green water? Were they sad or wistful or simply enjoying each other’s company?
5.
White dog roses, pale pink dog roses, a clear pink rugosa opening as I write.
6.
The nation is broken, but hills and rivers remain.
Spring is in the city, grasses and trees are thick.
Touched by the hard times, flowers shed tears.
Grieved by separations, birds are startled in their hearts.
--Du Fu
Note: the lines of Du Fu are translated by Arthur Sze.
...Theresa Kishkan 
I’ve never had roses nearby, but I love to see them in other people’s yards. Encampment I requested at the library and it looks like they’ve ordered it now: looking forward to it even more, given your thoughts so far. And what a powerful verse.
I’ve begun (about 1/3 of the way in) Madeleine Thien’s The Book of Records in which Du Fu’s life and poetry are part of the narrative(s). It’s so interesting to see the poems (which I’ve loved forever) come to life as he rides his horse Big Red from one place to another.
I just started this weekend but have not gotten far. I read her like poetry, just a few pages at a time. Now I am really looking forward to learning more about these verses: thanks for explaining. (What fun that we are reading at the same time! It probably happens fairly often, but we’ve not known.)
Yes, it is like poetry in that the language is so condensed, the associative leaps have a kind of lyrical alchemy, and time is open-ended. I read a few pages and put it aside to think about it. She is a marvel.