I have yet to make it into the garden this year; green fingers poke through the moist ground with no encouragement from me; the saw-toothed foliage unfurled on the rose bushes while I wasn’t looking. Out back, tender sedum leaves emerge, though the bones of last year’s blossoms still scratch the air above them. Hosta plants push up like curled cigar wrappers while the antique tissue of old summer blooms sway above a hydrangea’s new leaves. All around, the gardens host threads of garlic chives that spread unbidden--lanky tresses of untrimmed hair.
It is past time to get out there and snip and rake, yank and prod, to toss last year into the compost pile so it can blend and decay and leach its remaining goodness into the earth. I'm off to clear around this impetuous growth, to remove winter wrappers and catch up with a rebirth.