The first wet days of spring are always my favorite. In those early days, the edge of winter still bites a the air, making the fragile sunbreaks seem that much warmer. In these days I take to my yard in fits and starts, leaving my gloves and trowel in easy reach on the porch- ready to be grabbed up as I dash outside. The work is, satisfyingly, never hard. The beds are weeded in quarter-hour increments. One Sunday, a single artichoke is planted between massive downpours. Some days, the progress is little more than best intentions, and I begin to despair of ever seeing harvest. In the dampest moments, I console myself with the contemplation of the bulb sprouts, growing in what surely must be geologic time, but whose progress is still somehow satisfying, and the observation of the poppies, still nearly microscopic, in the wet-black soil. Surely though, that is enough.