First Forsythia

First Forsythia, a photo by Taproot Garden on Flickr.

There is a “coming-ness” to the garden these reticent spring days. Though the welcomed cycle of April rains has delayed the commencement of ground work, the lingering night frosts and chilly days have not deterred the daffodils and the sudden lemon-burst of yellow from the tiny forsythia we planted last year which stubbornly, unexpectedly bested the drought. It's dogged will to root and now blossom triggers an itching optimism for last year’s other plantings.

Indeed, the adolescent lilacs are sprinkled with bulging buds, and the grove of fruit trees reminds me of a Lamaze class full of swollen bellies. Tulips in the front beds are teasing, and poppy foliage anticipates color not too far distant. So far, the three service berry trees I planted last week during an intermission of sunlight are sustaining their buds and leaves, and the grass is Ireland-green.

In the greenhouse are signs of promise. Casualties notwithstanding -- sprouts that emerged and, for reasons I haven't discerned, withered -- there area shelves of green leaves, and in recent days 65 tomato and tomatillo seedlings moved into larger containers to encourage longer, stronger root systems. There is anticipatory movement itching the soil, as if something were about to erupt. Which of course it is.

But not quite yet.

It is, in the waking of spring, that spellbound reverie of semi-consciousness just beyond sleep but before the clarity and cognition of morning. Thoughts form but remain just out of reach; genius, like a butterfly, near but elusive.

It won't be long before it is all unleashed -- the colors, but also the frenzy of plowing and planting and feeding and weeding, watering and worrying and watching and waiting and, if the vegetable gods deign to smile this direction, plucking and finally tasting.

There is a “coming-ness” still to it all -- even to the salivation at the thought of that first tomato. Not yet, but not too far away.

And then we’ll see.