I rushed out to the nursery yesterday morning; bought parsley and mint seedlings, also a prunella as ground cover for the Parlor Bed and a few things for the backyard (a clump of Japanese forest grass, another black-lace elderberry, and an intriguing native plant called a wild nodding onion, which is supposed to grow in any old soil and have flowers that are wildly attractive to butterflies. It was a cold day, and I was swathed in a knit hat and a heavy Carhartt jacket as I dug holes and watered, but everything got planted; and then the rains arrived. All evening and all night the rain poured down--more than an inch in total--and this morning, even obscured by murky first light, I can see how much the buds have swelled on the trees and shrubs, how much the grass has greened.

I've been so glad to have an entire weekend in the garden, a little sad that I'll be separated from it this week. This afternoon I'm heading north, teaching kids tomorrow, and most of the rest of the days are also heavily booked with work, though I may steal a bit of garden time here and there.

Yesterday afternoon Tom and I curled up on the couch, in front of a fire, cups of tea, fat books, a baseball game on the radio. Today we tromp off to work. Meanwhile, rain keeps tapping and clicking at the windows, slower than it was, a sweet and gentle mutter, and the eager trees stretch their broad arms; underground, seeds split and wiggle toward the light.