A blooming madness

This time of the year it is not so much that I have a garden as it is that the garden has me. I am sore from all the rock hauling and pruning and digging and planting. Every year about this time I start to doubt that it will happen--that day in July when the earth is still and the flowers dance like fairies.

I don't have much spring flowers. Usually by the time fall comes around, I am sick of planting, so the bulbs don't go in. I did, however, plant Roger some purple tulips, and they are gorgeous. This was to apologize to him for what I will call The Great Henhouse Cleaning Rage. In short, I had a day where I was so mad at him for smoking so much and leaving me and dying. Also a day where the hen house needed a good cleaning. And yeah, well, I dumped the chicken crap all over the grave site where his ashes are buried. Then I felt bad and cried and called his mom, and she laughed and said, "its ok, honey, he could be a real little shit sometimes, we all know that."

And now, probably because of the chicken stuff and my rage, the tulips are beautiful.

I wish all my rages worked out so well. A blooming madness, I tell you.