When we were finished I told you to throw some of the seeds into the moss, and push them down into the clay with your hands. I’m hoping at least the morning glories take root, because they’re stubbornly beautiful and grow quickly.
I used to save our cans, and drive holes in bottom with hammer and nail. Before the snow had melted the seeds had long sprouted. I remember your small fingers plucking off little bits of basil until the small, tender leaves looked like caterpillars had nibbled through them. But of course there were no caterpillars in our second floor apartment; no spiders, or ants, not even a fly until mid-July.
The ground is warm enough here, and damp enough, that everything seems to sink in. Things don’t struggle as much to flourish. Up there, things must be prickly and fierce; even the fireweed has legends attached to its growth cycles.
The dogwoods are starting to bud, I saw bits of green peeking out from brown. I wonder if our trees will have pink or white flowers? Is this what it is? To stay somewhere for longer than a season or two? To know that the seeds that you plant will be seen by your eyes, and not just the next tenants? I’m glad we signed a long lease. It’s like an insurance policy against my gypsy nature.