The last cranberry seedling is curling up and dying. Poor thing. There go my cranberry dreams, until next fall at any rate.

The eclipse two nights ago was beautiful. I could absolutely see interpreting that as a sign from the gods, of good or evil, whichever side I cared to be on.

It is very quiet on the garden front these days. February is depressing me more than it has ever depressed me before, with the snow and the cold and the ice and the more snow (and it doesn’t help my morale when Eric gets up, checks the computer, says, “Two hour delay! Yeah!” and dives back into bed as I’m struggling to gather up the willpower to leave the soft warm bed for the cold bleakness that is the weekday morning). The broccoli pots are just sitting there, which is fair since it’s been less than a week. The scallions from Mom’s garden are in fact coming up now, bend double and yearning toward the window. I turn them every day. The lemon tree is still, slowly, blossoming out, trying to remind me to keep my chin up. The sage plant on the back steps, when not covered in snow, is a wrinkly gray shade of itself.

Spring is coming, I know. I was planting things outside last March. I’m waiting. Even in the rest of my life, I feel like I’m waiting. Now, this may be part of my personal psychological issues, or my inherent laziness, or both. But maybe no matter why I think I’m waiting, how or when or what for, what I’m really hoping for is spring.

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