Reclamation Ramblings

The itchy yellow micro dust that dulls windows, cars and patio furniture cannot diminish the degree with which I embrace Spring.  A scrub brush with a muddy drip pattern becomes an additional fixture to the sink.  Our wheelbarrow, pitchfork and two rakes take up permanence in the driveway with the arrogance of the family car.  Like Monday morning, it all seems possible with a new go-around.  Potential abounds.

This month the double-petal ruffled tulips were not beheaded by the lawn mower or the rabbits, and bloomed for the first time since they were nestled below the trellis three years ago.  I had forgotten the promised extravagance of the bulb package, and was surprised by the outlandish garb in so common a garden as mine.
Other plantings, expertly installed by a landscaper before our time, ran amok a decade ago and have been systematically left to rot, ruin and the winnowing hook modernly termed "weed whacker".  Lacking the energy or ambition I protested only in the mildest way as our property became a merged buzz cut of the green stuff bundled under the label of "lawn".

This year, I set out to reclaim the front garden.
Finding the woven carpet too dense for a spade, I perforated and pried pitchforked segments -- shaking free the soil and piling to cart away.  At times it seemed the work of reverse sodding, or harvesting sod, if anyone wanted bulbs and weeds and wildflowers all coming in a strip of "lawn".  The worms appeared awfully glad to see me, as if they were afraid they wouldn't be able to make it to the surface this year without some assistance.  They abound. 
When I finally unearthed the brick border I reluctantly acknowledged its awkward placement, and set about excavating each rectangle until I had enough to create a curving line parallel to the front of the house, rather than leaving it all akimbo.  Of course, another twenty square feet of "harvesting" was then required.  All poetry had, by that point, gone out of the vinca, violet and crabgrass marriage.  It was prosaic work.  But it is nearly done.

Next week I am going to trust the Farmer's Almanac and put out one hundred and twelve flower seedlings.  Poppies, larkspur, sweet pea, zinnia, chocolate lace, cress and dahlias will take their places in the rows I assigned them during the dreary days of February.

I have nothing to say about God. 
Except,
He must love me extravagantly to let me dig around in the dirt, cleaning things up, clearing things out, and restoring a space so that beauty can grow.
Anything else is too obvious for words.