Piles of decomposing leaves inhabited by soil organisms that in a million years may become a civilization, surrounded by squishy earth and deceptively deep puddles. Fissured pavement with steaming coal patch and fresh tire treads.
I want to be blinded by brilliant yellow jonquils, daffodils with white petals and centers the color of fresh egg yolks, fringed with deep red-orange, pink tulips, purple crocus and the cloying scent of blue narcissus.
I loved starting seeds early. By the time Mother’s Day rolled around, the plants were creeping beneath the doorframe, no matter how many times I turned them. “Please,” they begged, “let us out!”
I lost too many fragile plants to early frosts and late snow storms. Wait for the bulbs, I remind myself.
The bulbs know.