in the garden

The weather this past week has been nothing short of golden. Cool, mild temps. I've spent every spare moment working in the garden, digging out yard violets from beds (the small blooms of these found in Indy are not worth their rate of propagation).

Lots of discovery, looking at things I've forgotten about. The bleeding heart popped up over night and is blooming, its brackets of pink and white looking like tiny lanterns celebrating. Astilbe is coming out well. Even the big hostas have started their emergence. Only the blues remain sleeping.

I've planted a few sucker saplings of quince from a friend's plant. All the late planted daffodils are now coming up, while the other daffodils and forsythia begin their decline of bloom.

The columbine uncurls its leaves. Tulips are starting to open. Chives are doing well. My almond bush, planted last year, is loaded with small pink buds.

When I close my eyes, it is these small but steady signs of growth that I see.

But when I open them, it is the broader strokes, the puffy brilliance of the tulip trees, massive in bloom this year, the white ornamental pears, and pink cherrys that provide topographical splashes, a dangerous thing as I drive through the city wanting to take another hungry look at the color.

Yesterday, the redbuds started opening too.