Louis came by the other day to help me carry a box of books over to his house, children's books I had growing up and now his wife was maybe going to put some into her paintings. His backyard is waist-high in purple wildflowers, and as we crossed it he said something about the seeds that I missed. We left the books by Zoa's studio, but when I got home I realized I have the same wildflowers on the kitchen table, and I ran my hand over it and felt all the seeds, tiny gritty grains of sand. I pulled a book off a shelf nearby, opened it, sprinkled seeds between some pages, and put it back to wait.

Jack Balas, 2020; BOX OF BOOKS (#1932); India ink on paper, 30x22 inches