For the next few days my entries will need to be made during the day. For some reason, the light in the computer room is not working, and neither is the fan it is attached to. Thus the room gets light and dark according to the passage of day. Add to the mix my none-too-strong eyes, and problems result. At this point in time, the easiest resolution is not to use the computer room when it is dark outside.

Until the lights are fixed, so much for the luxury of late-night journal writing; the thoughts must be bared in the light of day.

It is storming outside again, patchy, intermittent storms. Mother Nature can't seem to make up her mind whether she wants to rain or not, but she is being indecisive enough that I will not be able to work in the flowerbeds today like I'd wanted to.

Yesterday's purchases from a local nursery: two tiny pots each of French tarragon, standard chives, and Kentucky Colonel spearmint.

I am looking for a new beginning -
yours—and mine—and ours -
in the midst of this mud.
Sky: still raining, as it has for hours.

We are waiting for spring,
for light, a signal to grow.

It lies, massing, under these bricks,
and compost, and newly-nodding shoots
I planted just yesterday:
sharply pruned. Just sticks—and roots.

We are waiting for spring,
for light, a signal to grow.

Stand porchside, dry. Lean out. Bare toes
shiver-wiggling against damp concrete,
hair spattering with runoff
as it flows from roof to street.

We are waiting for spring,

A roundup:

• 10 Dutch lavender
• 2 Provence lavender
• 4 common sage
• 9 sweet basil
• 2 Tuscan blue rosemary
• 2 creeping thyme
• 1 Greek oregano
• 2 lemon thyme
• 1 Confederate jasmine
• 1 yellow jessamine
  

Four common sages;
red, sodden earth—
a herald of rebirth.

Two of rosemary, six of thyme.
Marjoram one, basil nine.

Dig deep, plant yourself in
for strong roots. Let spring begin.
Step carefully to the stepping-stone,
for where your feet currently oppose
is the place the oregano goes.

Lavender holds the border
against thistles and clover.

Point your toes down and grow tall,
tall to the clouded spring sky. This wall
of scented talismans is your breath, your back,
your armor, your proof of power
against springtime showers.

Your measure of relief

This entry written under influence of great tiredness and several glasses of painfully alcoholic apple pie.

It is done—the first of the two flowerbeds, anyway. The end plan, of course, did not look like what I had planned, but I suppose some flexibility's good for me. Rejoice, say my tired muscles. They will ache a bit on the morrow, but not now.

I think we're all prepared for tomorrow's gardening extravaganza. The rototiller and various tools have been obtained. Due to the rain, we won't pick up the compost until tomorrow morning.

Sean promises this is going to be much easier than I think it's going to be. That's good, because I'm thoroughly dreading it.

Kat's mother confirms that she's going to try to get me some of Kat's grandfather's camellias from down in New Orleans. I love this—the thought of having a garden comprised of pieces that other people have loved and cared for makes me very happy indeed.

My first iris is blooming, close to the door. Dark purple and light purple; once my camera returns with Heather from D.C. I'll have to take pictures. Heather has my point-and-shoot while she's out in D.C., but, come to think of it, this kind of work would do better if I used my manual-everything Pentax anyhow.