The pause before the bloom

Is spring a little late this year? Or is it just that I'm waiting for its arrival with the expectancy of a kid counting down the days till Christmas?

Usually the roses have exploded in their first big burst of color by now. (The first bloom is definitely the most dramatic.) The Chinese maple trees that leaf out with the first hint of winter's end are taking their time this year, sending out a few lime green leaves at a time rather than filling out overnight like Fourth of July fireworks. And the bearded iris. Where are those deep purple beards?

Waiting for spring is a lot like waiting for a child to be born. Watching the belly bulge and watching so closely and so often ference each day. You wait. You watch. Then you run into an acquaintance who gasps to see how that belly has grown.

It's something akin to an anxious audience fidgeting in their seats before a performance begins. Reading the program over and over again and wondering when the house lights will dim.

I wish I could take a sabbatical. Leave my garden and return home in a week or a month when things are really starting to pop out. Instead I roam the beds each morning, coffee cup and clippers in hand and dog running circles around my ankles. I look for new evidence of color. Then I revisit those same beds again at twilight, as if something might have happened in the hours in between. Watching, waiting, noting each imperceptible change that says spring is finally here.

Except that it isn't. Not yet. Not in its full glory. Instead we've had rain followed by a snatch of sunshine followed by more rain.

And that's fine. That's what will bring us the beauty in the weeks to come. I know that the way a kid knows he'll eventually be allowed to open those beautiful boxes under the tree. But I'm impatient. I've got my vases, all sizes and shapes, ready to fill with cut blossoms, but so far the harvest is anything but impressive.

So I sprinkle more food around the base of each plant, spreading it across the beds like a farm maiden dispersing chicken feed. I look out the window on a rainy morning and watch again as the sun returns to dry up the puddles.

And I wait.