Three inches of top soil is all that was needed for the mulberry saplings to take hold. I found that risking open curtains in the early afternoon and letting the sun in gives the morning glories something to chase from their footing beneath the radiator. On the falling limb of summer the golden rod under the sill wave in the gust before the storm. In through the window an umbrellas enemy three times a month. Consequence: Ever expanding dark fault lines on the plaster ceiling of the room below. The print of gravitational water fed through the floorboards. All totaled it took 27 bags of outdoor garden soil loaded onto a flat dolly, shouldered two at a time up three flights of stair, spilled with the rip of an office key across the floor. Consider it a recipe.
Mid June, to my surprise the nibbled spades of infant cottonwoods droop off of young sprouts I had mistaken for willow. Gangways made from trim found leaning against the skeletons of bicycles in the basement balanced on old textbooks (Pearson's chemical principles 2008, silviculture or the applied ecology 1997, or thicker) lead to the pallet bed where squash blossoms creep. I can reach the windows from there. The rain comes in, the populous shaken from cone flowers and aster clippings, or like the cottonwood carried on an updraft, unfurls. In my garden I await consequence.
