APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain. (T.S. Eliot — The Waste Land)
For the first time in my life I’ve actually planted something. I keep running out to the garden to see if the fruits of my labour have sprouted yet. I worry and fuss over my seedlings like a mother hen. I have no explanation for why the sudden interest in gardening, except the realisation that plants are tenacious creatures that are hardy and resourceful in ways we can only hope to be.