During the winter, when our back fence fell to fierce east winds, Tom and I cut away damaged branches from the lilac and rose bushes.
This morning I spared another “I’ve got to do something about that” glance for the pile of branches on the gravel, then bent over to inspect a damaged seeper hose. I unbent slowly enough to see, in the pile, buds at the same stage of swelling and reddening as those on the bush they were cut from.
With a blue vase, water, and a packet of flower preservative saved from a bouquet Tom brought home, the branches, buds, 60-degree weather and I are celebrating spring, persistence, and yearning. And joy.