Sap is running in the sugar bush, the ground is loosening with rain and warmth, and I’m soaking my first round of garden seeds. I have observed the rites of spring planting for most of my life, and I know of no more hopeful ceremony. There is always some dreaming involved, a little picture making about the patterns I’ll create with Black Magic, Winterbor, and Redbor kale. How I’ll train the Sashimi cucumbers up a trellis, so the gherkins can fatten in midair. How a white hibiscus might ...
