It was a little heartbreaking to walk through town Wednesday morning, doing a dog and human do-si-do around shrubs and trees dragged nearly to the ground by the weight of beautiful blossoms and snow. I felt a little catch in my throat when I saw pale pink flowers on a neighbor’s magnolia tree encased in ice and tiny peach blossoms peeking out from a freezing blanket.
But this is Colorado. By the time I got home from work that night, the wild plum branches that made me crouch low to get into my car had popped back up into an arch of starry flowers against the indigo sky. The air was only cool and I could hear water rushing through the drainage out back, behind the rain gauge that measured a half-inch of moisture.
I thought about the snow still thick in the back yard, slowly melting into the grass seed my gardening partner, Beth, raked into weeded dirt two afternoons before (and followed up with a rain dance to make sure the fescue takes). I wondered if the succession of pea seeds I had tucked into rows lined by bamboo teepees were feeling the moisture, dropping thick roots and unfurling leaves and tendrils in the climb toward summer. I hoped the carrots and kale planted in the cold frame were receiving the signal to grow.
Spring demands much of gardeners — the discipline to do enough to prepare and not so much that the time and effort are wasted. And importantly, it requires faith that there is hope buried inside even the deepest snow.
