The herb cuttings left in small glasses on the kitchen counter have sprouted, finally. Thin, translucent white tendrils probed out from each green stem of coriander, basil, and mint. Filling small terra cotta containers with potting soil and poking the stems down deep where the roots can take hold is a timeless satisfaction. Watering the confused, tossed around, and not disheartened leaves, then placing them in the sun... I've felt the same way, I want to tell them, and it's been awhile, and I'm doing fine.

Last night's rain washed away some city grime and a creeping, pervasive feeling of stagnancy. New fragrant blossoms on the lemon tree and a newly red tomato — what more do you want than this? Fifty miles of elbow room wouldn't hurt. Bloom where you're planted, my mother says, echoing someone else's wisdom.

Traffic roars on 40th Street. The cat stretches on the couch. Tendrils of the maidenhair fern tremble slightly in the cross-breeze. This time feels like the calm before a storm, and I'm waiting for something to strike.