Since I need to be working on my infernal overdue article, and since I want to be mucking around in my garden, I’m not going to say much today. Instead, I’ll defer to Robert Frost, who I think might’ve had my little garden in mind when he wrote this, one of my favorite poems: “Nothing Gold Can Stay.”
Her hardest hue to hold.
And yeah, I realize that’s an awfully melancholy sentiment on a mild spring day awash in unfamiliar brilliant sunshine. Yet this poem has been running through my head all day as I’ve biked past trees that are just leafing out green-gold, the very newness of their buds whispering a story older than Eden of transience, loss, and rebirth.
All photos are from my garden, taken a few days ago.