Turn around, and–oh! All sorts of plants in pots, needing to be planted. All sorts of weeds needing to be pulled where the plants are to be planted. Last week it was too early, we were still having frost. This week it’s too late; I can’t work fast enough.
I have to stop and remind myself that I waited all winter for this. But I am always of two minds. When I am writing, I feel like I should be gardening. When I am gardening, I am writing in my head. How ironic that when there is the most to write about, there is the least time to do so.
I just want to say: I haven’t quit writing–it’s just not getting out of my head. I planted a rose. I’m battling bindweed. I’m gradually taking a bed back from goldenrod. There are more things in bud than in bloom, and I’m not sure whether it’s me or the garden that’s holding its breath, waiting for the crescendo.
And how are things with you?