The sun comes up each morning in a blaze of burnished copper, red-gold on the rim of the world.
I sit on the back steps in blossom-scented shadows and listen to a robin in the apple tree try out his spring song.
He hasn't gotten it quite right -- not yet -- but he's determined.
This weekend, I mowed lawns and planted the salad garden: lettuce and tomatoes, cucumbers and such.
Each morning I am amused to re-plant a few bare-bottomed onion sets, humiliated by night crawlers that struggled manfully during the dark hours to haul them by their stems into their tiny holes.
Then I tackled the herb garden by the fountain and banished, once more, forget-me-nots and creeping bell flower and herb robert, transplanted the chives and lemon balm, comfrey and borage -- all intent on invading space beyond their own allotted beds -- and trimmed the sprawl of sage and thyme and lavender.
I potted petunias, scarlet petunias, pink and white and burgundy petunias, petunias pale yellow and mauve, and placed them on the terrace by the front door, for their fragrance surprises visitors like a kiss.
And above it all, the smell of apple blossom, of white and purple lilac, is like a blessing, like a promise, like a song.