This past weekend I finally got outside and cleaned up the bulk of our winter debris. Filled the typical forty lawn bags of all the dead leaves and branches and various junk that litters the landscape while the garden slumbered. It’s awake now, but it’s still early. Groggy and shaking off sleep, the earth yawns and yearns to sleep a bit more. I get the same feeling on Wednesday mornings. Or whatever day this is. I seem to be losing track.
Here is a pair of before and after shots, and while the photo doesn’t do the scope and work justice, please note that the main stand of fountain grass in the first picture is 12 feet tall. That’s over twice as tall as me. This was no cake-walk, and there was definitely no cake at the end of the ordeal either. But it’s all part of the process, all part of the plan. I’m happy as a clam knowing that spring has arrived, and time in the garden is a valuable kind of therapy of its own. Cutting down each stalk was a ritual of cleansing and rebirth. Out with the old and in with the new. The earth, when left to her own devices, takes care of herself.
As a gift for my efforts, the first jonquils of the season deigned to bloom as I brought the bags to the curb. Pausing to crouch down and inhale their fragrance – that glorious scent of spring that has yet to be successfully replicated in any perfume or cologne – I remembered springs that have come before, and I allowed myself a bittersweet smile.
