I worked at my desk all morning, then met with Betsy about our festival prep, and then--with much happiness--I dragged my pea and bean trellises out of the shed and set them up in their garden places. It's far too early to plant beans, but I like to figure out the architecture of the garden early. Peas are another story: it's the perfect time to plant peas, and that is what I am going to do this afternoon.

Plenty of desk chores await, but I'll be teaching all day tomorrow so I'm not going to press myself unduly. I need to do a final rereading of my Monson student work, I've got a stack of editing, and there are conference administration chores aplenty, but the garden calls, the garden calls. Seed potatoes and red-onion sets arrived in the mail yesterday, new soil for the new boxes will arrive next week, and I have several shrubs to transplant as well a few to dig out and give up on. The ramps are sprouting and spreading, garlic and chives are greening, and the air is scented with hyacinths. It's so hard to stay indoors.

Sheets flutter on the lines; the convalescent cat curls into a leaf pile to watch me work: the idyl of spring--dirt cakes my fingernails and a pair of cardinals flirts among the budding lilacs. I can hardly believe my luck: here I am, still alive, witnessing earth's scintillating, outrageous floorshow.