Quarantine But there still are the other things— water’s rhythmic tumble over rocks, the gentle hush of wind through leaves— we celebrate in solitude.     Libby Sommer   His Coriander Flourishing above the planter box, it’s ready for harvesting. I snip the curling tendrils with their skinny stalks, hearing the clean snap of stem from dense green foliage. At the end of a rain-filled night, the earth smells heady. He took his suitcase, his cello, and his sheet music. He left the fragrant coriander seeds, said, Tending a relationship is like keeping a plant alive. So I’ll take this herb…