Last year’s growth provides the woody veins in which the bright electric blood of Spring is now flowing. The bulbs have emptied themselves of their carefully stored juices and the liquid had turned into fleshy green swords pushing through the intractable clay. All the Prunus family are in flower and a strong wind creates confetti for the passerby. Suddenly amidst all this upward and outwardness a pot is seen through the undergrowth- heavy, stately, still- the garden rests awhile inside the quietness of it’s belly.
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