This is my garden, today.

It is full of dead things. Things that used to be beautiful, used to be alive, used to give joy and fragrance and to bear bloom and seed.

Today, it does none of those things. The blooms have faded; the stalks carry no nutrients. What remains is dry, brittle, breakable.

It is buried, in snow and ice. Frozen.

But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope:

beneath the snow, beneath the ice, beneath the ground, the roots are growing.

There are plants which cannot grow without a period of cold to prepare them. There are buds which cannot bloom without a season of rest. There are roots which cannot be eradicated, no matter the extremes of temperature, nor for that matter the efforts of a homeowner who tries to eliminate them. (Grass roots. I never understood the power of that term until I tried to dig grass out of my garden. It is impossible to get all of the roots. It’s also impossible to get rid of catnip, or lemongrass, or anything in the mint family. Or trumpet vine. We’ve tried for fifteen years to kill that trumpet vine and it keeps coming back. Tom has finally developed a love for it and just relocates clumps of it…now we have trumpet vine everywhere.)

There are also seeds which cannot burst open without fire.

The garden which can be seen in winter, is not the true garden. Spring will come, in God’s time.

(digging, planting, weeding, and watering still help.)

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