Tuesday’s stom was so fierce, even the dandelions, snug to the ground, were blackened.
Roaring winds. Single digit lows. A mere spattering of snow. Tulipa kaufmanniana ‘The First’, filled with bees on Monday, could not bow down far enough.
Tight-fisted buds on the Carol Mackie daphne, crisped. Hyacinths blasted.
The front door tulips? Not likely this year.
Then, yesterday, new signs. Rhubarb keeps on trying.
Narcissus ‘Itzim’ and chionodoxia bloom together.
And this morning, before sunrise, rain. Enough to leave puddles.
Enough to leave a sip in the birdbath.
I couldn’t wait to go out and smell the air. I threw on a hoodie over my pj’s and dug into the earth with bare fingers just to make sure it was real. Even in the driest part of the parking median, the earth was perfectly moist.
Birds are rioting.
The mourning doves have returned.
The front door tulips have been kissed. All is forgiven.