Without question—Spring—best time of year in the garden. Better than summer when everything’s clamouring and shouting, a riot of colour, a blur, mere background— like a gallery full of exquisite art—impressive as a collection, but impossible to give each item the attention it deserves.
Right now the garden is quiet, still stretching, yawning, relaxed. A humble place where the most excitement is every day another bit of green has replaced mud, a bloom has opened pink or blue or white, and that clump of leaves—still undistinguishable—is either cardinal flower or coreopsis. Does it really matter?
It’s excitement enough.
Oh sure, god bless summer and all that, but by July there’s so much to see I think we actually see less—whereas right now, and for a while longer, it’s possible to see everything…
Last night’s rain on this morning’s lupin and lady’s mantle.