It was a long winter. A long, long winter, with six to eight helicopters passing overhead every day. We needed spring.
And spring came. It began with the crocuses
And the Lenten roses, so well named, so steadfast
And the sweet company continued, with humble daffodils and flamboyant tulips that begged to come indoors.
A garden on our table — why not?
And the charmingly phallic asparagus — first planted in the eighties and failing, planted here a few years ago and now abundant.
Blueberry flowers have the most seductive scent I know.
May apples and Jack-in-the-pulpit are shade plants and sometimes even shade each other.
Some of the garden comes indoors to dry, like this fragrant thyme.
I was delighted when I learned how easy it is to grow horsetails, those ancient, ancient plants. It’s like keeping a dinosaur except that it doesn’t bite.
Columbines look so implausible to me. These started in our back garden where the dead heads were cast into the compost and made their way in the compost to the front garden.
And now the season of the irises. These were a gift of a woman who was first a student and later a colleague. She bred irises and hostas. I was blessed to do her funeral, but her irises long outlive her as a memory of a life well lived.
Summer will come, and hard work will come. Winter will return. But the memory and promise of spring hold true.