Happy

Green hooded sprouts roll up out of adzuki beans in my kitchen. In their Ball jar captivity they split and grow and reach for the other sprouts reaching and growing and living in this jar in my kitchen.
The lettuce growing in clay pots on my window sill tilt towards the sunny in need of washing window overlooking the snow melting into muddy puddles under the trees. Spring in my backyard.
Is it mine? The backyard, I mean? For at least the year every square inch is mine and I am not sure how I feel about that.
But it means I can have row upon row of sprouting bean plants and lettuce and pumpkins- bring on the pumpkins except it means cold weather is near- and kale and tomatoes and rainbow chard and things that grow and reach and only know what its like to try to embrace the sun in cells and tasty flowering edibles.
I stare at my plants for minutes at a time in absolute wonder.
And as I write this I realize that I have become that older woman gardener who writes about her plants with enthusiasm and passion and wonder- that woman that would prompt a sigh and an automatic flip over the article (Bo-Ring) for most of my life, the one I never understood.
Until I became her.