This is the view from my bedroom window--a bit blurry because of the window screen, but you get the idea. These lilacs are not mine but my neighbor's, and I am like Rapunzel's mother--fervently desiring what's on the other side of the fence. Everything in her garden is stately and established, whereas almost everything in mine is a messy wilderness, bare earth, or tiny and new.

I spent yesterday weeding, planting, and reading Thomas Hardy. It was all very bucolic. My neighborhood is ridiculously beautiful just now, and I wish my garden could keep up with the glories. But people have been so kind. Yesterday I planted some gift ginger and hosta, which will be foundations for my future shade garden. My mother loaded me with plants from her favorite Vermont nursery. My friend up north is babysitting a cranberry saved from the Harmony garden. A friend in New Hampshire is nurturing lupines grown from Harmony seeds. I am basking in their garden affections.

Still, I don't think I'll ever create a classic city plot. I want clotheslines and a woodpile. I want vegetables among the flowers. I imagine berry bushes and grape arbors. Maybe they will happen.