I have gone off the deep end.
I have planted corn.
From seeds. Hard golden nuggets.
I have little hope that any of them will grow.
I have no room for them in my garden, anyway.
All the prime real estate (good soil, good sunlight) was filled in by starts that I bought while that packet of seeds sat on my kitchen corner. So now the corn is tucked in the corners, and a few meager that seemed to poor for any plant I wanted badly.
As I hunkered down in the dirt and troweled out short trenches, a handful of seeds in my hand, I felt like Jack, or like Jack's mother—as though I were planting magic. And after I found as many places for the corn as I could, I planted some beans.
If any of it grows—and that's a mighty big if—I'll take a picture. It really will last longer!
Time to punch down (gently!) the bread, if it has risen. I may not be writing so much today, but I'm feeding something.