One six ounce glass of snowdrops…
We picked as many as would fit in a juice glass. It was raining.
Almost all of these bottles were scratched up by our chickens. They are perfect vases for snowdrops.
…eleven small but exquisite snowdrop bouquets. Snowdrops have a fragrance that is similar to sweet alyssum or certain daffodils (not poeticus or jonquils). We picked these at the old garden and the truck was filled with the scent of them on the way home.
Snowdrops line the path to the secret garden at the old house. If you look carefully you can see the white blur of snowdrops beyond the footbridge.
I will be moving as many snowdrops as I can manage to the new garden. Did you notice there were three different kinds of snowdrops in that juice glass?
There are many more kinds of snowdrops in the world than what you see here
When my fourteen-year-old saw the glass full of snowdrops, he said, “Ah, spring.”
Now, the digging and dividing of perennials, the general autumn cleanup and the planting of spring bulbs are all an act of faith. One carries on before the altar of delayed gratification, until the ground freezes and you can’t do any more other than refill the bird feeder and gaze through the window, waiting for the snow. . . . Meanwhile, it helps to think of yourself as a pear tree or a tulip. You will blossom spectacularly in the spring, but only after the required period of chilling.
in The Washington Post, November 6, 2013