I kept waiting for spring to come. Watching the fields for new signs of life. Of course, spring truly arrived in the air first. It arrived in the Balm of Gilead and the white currant blossoms.
The snowdrops and the crocuses came up, even though it was still snowing, they surfaced none-the-less. Slowly, the ground dried out enough for us to start digging the garden.
I planted peas and kale and onions. The cold hardiest of the vegetables. The garlic overwintered nicely. Even a few sweet peas volunteered. With all the new life it was with great sadness I learned that they will be selling the farm. It may be as soon as next spring. So as I look at my garden, I keep thinking this may be the last one I will ever plant here.
It shades everything this knowledge. This may be the last spring, and so I go from enjoying the new life, to mourning its eventual absence.
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