Springtime started her seasonal flirtation early this year. Way back in March —when she should have been roaring— spring was soft as a lamb. But as T. S. Eliot said, April is the cruelest month, and in 2020 we find ourselves in truly uncharted territory.
As I stood blinking in the bright, cold sunlight yesterday morning —drinking in the spicy scent of partially open Bodnant Viburnum blossoms— I thought about patience. Waiting has never been my strong suit, but over the years, gardening has taught me to be a bit less impetuous. I pull back mulch later than most gardeners, and I am slow to set out my seasonal pots. Sometimes I’ll see a splashy display on some fantasy Insta-garden and I’ll get tempted to push the season —but I know it’s never worth the price. There’s snow in my Vermont forecast for the weekend. So for now I’m glad I let the hemlock boughs remain. Waiting has its rewards.
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