Just on the tipping point out of winter and into spring. This week the bulbs made a commendable effort before being startled by a cold snap. The morning of this picture was cold, clear, and still. The low light glowed like the embers of an approaching summer heat wave. I am optimistic. I like the warmth.

It is strange how a simple crystal clear day can raise spirits, make you want to plunk down on a wood fence (in your parka and toque) and listen to the silence for a long while. But days move, with their own speed and don’t really wait for you to have a moment. For that you have to be the moment and be in the moment.

I’ve noticed that what nurtures me through this time of year is hope. and the hope is more specifically for the show that the garden will give me, and after the show, the bounty, that I can wander among and pinch at and nibble on. The yard is layered with memory now, of what I planted years before, and what spring bulbs I planted more recently, in the fall. There are victories –– sugar baby watermelon –– and disasters –– the never bearing blueberry bush. I am determined this year to combine visuals, a butterfly garden, with tastes, raspberries where the strawberries failed. I am slowly learning what works, what doesn’t and which plants ask for some compromise, diplomacy, and a little understanding.

While I wait for the first bits of daffodil yellow, I will relish the low light that paints the morning gold, and will soon enough warm the petals and leaves of this grey garden.