Today is Saturday. The rains have stopped, it's cold, but dry - you can already go out into the yard without feeling that nature is hostile.
I took the pelargonium out of the house. She spent the winter in the room, on the windowsill, and seemed to survive the winter normally. I put the vase in place - and it immediately became somehow more correct. Such a small gesture, and the feeling that the season is officially open.
Then I went to see what was being done in the garden. And I immediately discovered: the dogs had reached the hyacinths. The vase is standing, the ground is excavated, the flowers are broken. I didn't even find out who exactly - with eighteen suspects it's pointless. I just put away what could have been removed.
But the crocuses come out. Slowly, carefully, as if you are not sure that the time has come.
There's something else breaking through next to them - I honestly don't remember what I planted there in the fall. Apparently, I'll find out when it blooms. I love such surprises, although I usually tell myself that I should write them down.
The frost flower is blooming - quiet, a little gloomy, very beautiful.
And the fritillaria also blossomed. These two never fail, they bloom when everything else is still thinking.
The peonies have already turned out.
But my favorite bush is standing naked. I approached, looked at the branches - no movement. Not a hint of a kidney, not the slightest sign of life. Most likely, the frosts killed it after all. I don't want to write it off yet, I'll wait a little longer. But inside I already understand.
A garden after winter is always a bit of a lottery. Something survived, something not, something was broken by dogs.
The usual spring
