I believe that few things could ever excite me more then not being the same as the last.
If our moods and excitements were not in our creations, if our Being is not shining from the tapestry that holds our tender thoughts, it is not worthy of the titles bestowed on it. If our work is minus but only 1-10th % of our ability, this work of ours must be thrown to the floor, and disgraced with our utmost ability.
Well, our spring has finally set in. As you know, we got our first measurable rain today (3 inches.) Now, I can cease my motherly attention I give to my once frail seedling. Those first few weeks, starting as they first push from their hardened forts, until they stand proudly with their man-boy canopies, this is my most active and exciting time among the rows. Waiting their every whim, I tend to them as any proud father would.” Gate', pourri.” Now that the rains have come, the soil warm,swollen and the sun high, I have little worry. They, my youth-full crop may worship and be worshiped without fear of an early death.
What magnificence to witness, the birth, life and death of a plant of any class. We think we manipulate them to our will. Nevertheless, they push past our interference with plain indifference. Tomorrow will bring me new joy, as will the next. I will mourn the last fruit as a fleshy friend lost. I will gather its rewards and savor it with honor. As winter misery measures its pray, I will plan my gardens return from my ice covered view, dreaming of fruit for plenty.