St. George is not one of my particular saints, but then, neither was the Infant of Prague until I was overwhelmed with him. In the spring, I start to think of George again, with Joseph and Isidor and Anthony - all the springtime saints. It’s funny, I don’t have any women saints in my spring, but the Marys are so summery, Therese is fall, Paraskeva so autumnal or Lenten, and Agnes is winter.
I have bulbs to plant when the ground is thawed, an edited manuscript to send back to it’s mother, and the mess of my own written ones to collect on the desk yet again. I’ve been rejoicing with thick cream in my coffee and dreaming more and more of dairy goats - unlimited cream being my primary goal in life. Petka has begun picking out letters, but only when they don’t distract her by resembling too much the moon she loves. C is a particular problem.
