In the evening, I planted lettuce and spinach, and laid two short rows of carrot seeds in the vegetable planter. The garden is four paces deep and four and a half wide. Three blueberry shrubs show much promise, adorned with bell-shaped white blossoms. Raspberry canes, with sharp minty leaves, sprout everywhere, but mostly thrive along the south edge of the yard. They make forays into the neighbors' rose beds. Two pots grow strawberries.
Maty calls.
Springtime rain shower, mischievous imp, insists on a laugh at my expense, catching me hat-less and coat-less in my hotfoot to the market where I meet Maty to help her carry groceries.
It has been difficult to find words of late. For anything. I only know to keep trying.
One day, the whisper of her broom on the linoleum or the menthol scent of heat balm rubbed into an aching shoulder may seem miraculous. Why not?
Watching the world rise in springtime. Dazzled by that old familiar light.
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