Faster than I could stop it, new green life shoots up
through a lawn smothered not long ago by blizzard. Tree buds, which assumed
they still had several snooze cycles before the alarm, get a rude awakening in
single digit March.
Part of me welcomes this. Part of me needs more time. I am
ready for this great thawing, this great opening of hearts to the warm breeze,
but I could use more time to prepare.
This early spring fools me, drives me into an unearned panic
that there is so little time left to graft hydrangeas and azaleas onto the
land, to grow colors that are uniquely ours, mine and his, somehow combined in
some alchemy that we cannot explain.
But it’s not as if the nurseries will put up closed signs
and say we are out of luck and should have started sooner. I must learn to fool
myself, to breathe in the early balmy afternoon and know the season is young
and there is still so much spring left to soak in.
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