|Yellow, yellow, yellow.|
The forsythia bushes illuminate the landscape, covered in bright yellow blossoms. Clusters of daffodils dance and nod, spotlights of brilliance among the new green. Even the lilac bushes are budding -- for the first time since I planted them several years ago.
The back area of the garden, which is still "under construction," has been raked and mulched and weeded. Three little aronia shrubs now grow at the garden's edge. One day they will grow large enough to screen the current backdrop of piles of black compost. A few things have been transplanted. Some elderberries have been cut down to make way for a small apple tree. Nettles hacked out of the garden paths make their way into my lunch.
Every day the garden holds something new. All growing things live at a rapid pace. Tips of asparagus show in the soil and soon will make their way to our dinner table, an early gift from the garden. While weeding different areas I discover plants I'd forgotten. What's kind of mint is this growing by the cherry tree? I pull a few small leaves, crushing them to release their fragrance. What is it? I taste. Oh yes, oregano. Now I remember planting it here.
And we've had rain, falling in gentle spring thunderstorms, brightening the colors to such intensity it makes my heart ache. My routine changes, emerges. The evening might be spent with one final wander through the garden, looking for the things I might have missed while my focus was intent on work. More daffodils blooming in the cutting garden. They join other bouquets of daffodils plucked the day before.
I feel the hard shell of winter crumbling, splitting, falling away. I emerge, dancing in a swirl of sunlight.