Thoughts On A Spring Morning

By Beth Yarbrough

These are the days. With a lush pink-green-and-white stroke of the brush, the earth reassures me that all is well. Following a deep exhale, I launch with confidence into the coming warm days. There will be abundant light from now until Halloween. Praise the Lord and hand me the flip flops.

The lovely ritual, however, it not incapable of throwing a curve ball. Take this morning, for instance. I am gazing out the window at a giant impromptu tent of heavy plastic sheeting in my garden, whose supporting cast of assorted blankets, a footstool covered in a beach towel, a blue tarp, and an upended antique cotton basket, all were called into service on the spur of the moment just before sunset last night.

“Freeze warning” said the weather app on my phone. And this after my hydrangeas had been told that the coast was clear. Those girls are already fluffed and green and ready for the prom. WTH?

I am not unaccustomed to emergency protection for tiny buds that have jumped the gun. In fact, the plastic sheeting is pre-cut to fit the row of hydrangeas for that very reason. I know the drill, but all that is supposed to happen before I exhale.

Such is life, I guess. The plastic tent will come off as soon as I finish this next cup of coffee, the cotton basket will come back in the house, and the hydrangeas will get their turn around the dance floor after all. Meanwhile, the azaleas are yawning and stretching in the early morning sun and asking what all the fuss was about.

And there will be abundant light from now until Halloween.