Garden Journal


Sidewalks of my neighbourhood...

...their spring-time borders...

 ...and canopies...

...reasons to look forward to after-work walks with my Westie, especially in the sunshine but even in the grey and drizzle.


The first day of spring | The first spring day 

The first day of spring is one thing, and the first spring day is another.  The difference between them is sometimes as great as a month.
                                                                                                        ~Henry Van Dyke

So true. During the past few weeks in Vancouver we've enjoyed some pleasant pre-spring weather as well as a few, unwelcome reappearances of winter -- including snow this past Monday!

But yesterday, the March equinox, late afternoon sunshine, and daffodils, cherry blossoms and violas combined to make the day ...well, truly vernal. Oh, and after work I opened the mailbox at home to find this pretty envelope from a gardening friend.

Before I opened the envelope (oh, so carefully) I had to admire it for a few moments. The design reminded me of the covers of heirloom seed catalogues I'd picked up at Seedy Saturday this past February.


Inside the envelope, a sweet card & carefully packaged, extra-special seeds -- eggplant, basil & lettuce -- from Master Gardener Meighan. Thank you!


Other things I love on the balcony... tulips & a white Westie:


Snow on the balcony

the type I like to see in February:


Galanthus nivalis

    & snow crocuses


Crocus chrysanthus


"Little Februaries"



Little Februaries, they

            unbind themselves, pages

sweetening the air.

            Little petals, not fit

for grieving, ornately

            frail. Petals sheer as sheets,

as raw and spare. Stems,

            thin straws of green, needles

drinking the dirt —

            unspooling the white

bulb into blossom. Lips

            parting open their pale

veils. Green veins poured

            into tiny cups of ivory air.

Green straws — green pencils —

             throats through which a shallow

dark is drawn. White notes

             birthed and nursed. A white song

scored — forced out — little breaths

             exhaled. Sweet wreaths for rooms.

Sweet wraiths exhumed. Eyes

             opening the whites

                         at the end of their lines.  

 Source: Blackbird Archive