We had no rain to speak of this past winter at our house. No winter grass sprouted in the yard. For the longest time I despaired of seeing spring. But like love, it found a way. And yesterday, I saw a nice batch of bluebonnets in the east yard at the end of the house, and the Mexican Buckthorn in the back lots is covered with blooms, as is the Texas honeysuckle and the big peach tree. Hope has sprung again, eternal as always.

Everywhere I look there are bits of green. At the base of the Turks caps, and the asters, and the scarlet sage, and even the lantana. There are little shoots on the little trees, and the false mallow, and the Mexican plum, and the Morning Glory. All are speaking of things to come, flowers and hummingbirds and big butterflies, and native bees and fields of color and soft scents. The gardens are humming with life. Even the cats are happy because the little fountain is back in business

Later this spring I’ll start painting; the dog run needs a new coat for sure as does the back door. And I’ve found a window washer to do my windows, inside and out. The sand is fresh in the pool filter and the water there looks clean and cool. It’s ready for grandchildren and any other children who stop by with their parents. And soon enough the hot days will come, but now it’s cool and the air is full of soft promises and flowers. All I need next is to see a hint of green on the Barbados cherry and I’ll know we’re all back and ready to go, the gardener and his garden.

John W. Wilson is the author of The Long Goodbye: A Caregiver’s Tale