I arrived in Virginia in November. The leaves had fallen and the trees were bare and gray. The ground had some final green tips though it was on its way to a dirt-colored shade. But as I noted earlier, there were signs a great gardener had once cared for this place. Now that life begins again, I am watching as shoots appear and long limbs bloom. It is coming in gentle and soft: Light colors, papery petals, and the occasional breezy scent of new grass. Not every spring is a kind one, but so far ours has been good natured enough.
I am always outside, even when I should be in. It is hard to turn away from this season: Anything can happen at any moment.
There was a flicker of yellow beyond the stone wall yesterday. The dog and I rounded the driveway to the road and I realized the gardener of my home's past had hopefully planted literally hundreds of daffodil bulbs along the roadside in front of the house. It is becoming an oasis of cheeriness on an old country road. Daffodils on old hills never fail to amaze me. I wonder about their age. And the hands that planted them; were they young and dewy? Wizened and experienced?
Little things around the place are winking at me. Things someone planted with an eye on the future, or the cut arrangements in the house. Full of old hopes for a season of new life.
Some of this is new to me, left to me by a gardener long gone but having found one certain vicarious road to immorality.
Pup and I will be watching. I asked him to come inside - and normally he does - but he laid on the mat at the back door and looked up at me.
Staying to watch from his perch above his country road, I guess.