I'm not sure I want to commit myself to saying that spring is my favorite time of the year. The next thing you know, I'll be telling you why I love the ripe heat of summer, or autumn's deliquescence. However, this has been a strikingly beautiful spring, cold and wet. We have been living in a bank of fog. The plants love it.
Because I didn't do a fall cleaning, I have to do a rather massive spring cleaning. I've made countless trips to the back of the garage with my wheelbarrow full of cuttings and moldy leaves. But I'm also leaving a lot of leaves on the ground, covering them up with fresh compost, because they make a rich floor. Soon my untidiness will be covered with new growth.
I'm always pleased to see which of my plant friends made it through the winter; the lone, freckled,yellow hellebore has a lovely face. The pleating on the Sanguisorba arema fascinates me, it looks as though a Spanish fan is unfolding.
And the coloration of the Sorbaraia sorbifolia is a spring version of fall colors. I remember none of these names. I have to call Ed, every year, at the nursery, to be reminded. He gets to practice his patience.
I went to prune my favorite roses, and found that they were rootless, their bottoms just bare stumps. I could see the tooth marks of the voles as they chiseled their way through the rootball. Fury. And I am puzzled by the disappeared ones. Why? What didn't they like about being here? Was it something I did? Or the innocent perversity of the fickle-natured? Fine then. I'll just fall in love with something else.