As spring dawns and the garden awaits its yearly transformation, I anticipate my own, too. The tranquil hours of winter were passed with knowing—knowing that the brittle trees will somehow awaken to the fullness of life and shelter the birds again; knowing that the caterpillars in their perplexing rest will emerge as kings and queens of the flowers; knowing that the barren rosebushes, cut back to their stumps, are merely sleeping and not forgotten. My soul goes through a similar sleep, and when spring arrives, it longs to unfold in the same way the garden does.
But, oh, to wait for these signs and wonders! There is a burgeoning impatience to
