Day five of rain here. On the plus side, clover covers the lawn, runs rampant through the grass; the lilacs hang heavy, their blossoms bending almost to earth, and the petals of the last few tulips have thinned to translucent sheets of purple glass. On the minus, the new seedlings are as likely to rot as to grow, the slugs and snails are partying 24 hours a day, and the mulch and compost heaped in the driveway have turned into giant mud mountains--even tucked under their tarps.
Clay pots await planting, the herbs await sunshine, and we keep working.
We are busy, rain or shine, clearing a new bed for the privacy border we're crafting from shrubs and shade-loving perennials. And then there are the killer vines, the rogue quinces, and the dozens of maple saplings that look like they've been allowed to run rampant for many a year between our patio and a neighboring yard. I've got my trusty loppers, my pruners, and my saw. I've cut and cut and cut. Found old roses and lilacs long-hidden from the sun, but still growing. Have felt like Mary in her secret garden, uncovering the treasures, bringing them back to life.
And we're falling in love daily with new plants we've brought home from other gardens, from local plant sales and nurseries. There's the bridal veil spirea with its old-fashioned sprays of white-lace flowers, and the Lady's Mantle to tuck in at the front of the sunny border where it will tumble over the low wattle fence we've woven.
