Killing Time (And Plants)

 The quarantine isolation is finally starting to get to me. I'm a true introvert, but there is such a thing as touch starvation, and at heart even avoidant humans are socially-wired. We crave connection, and there is precious little of that right now. This melancholia brought to you by the semester ending just around the corner, and the relief and pleasure of cancelled plans being overtaken by the glut of monotony. You truly can have too much of a good thing, even time.

I planted several things in the last month, including poppies in the front bed that have yet to show their tiny seedling heads, and passionflower along the fence and in the back of the enclosure bed (ditto on the MIA status). The wildflowers, ironically called since they were purposely-sown, have just begun to pepper the bare space by the deck with green after quite nearly a month germinating the smallest of leaves. I itch to see the fruits of my labors, but this is the thing about gardening; it takes time and patience. Time I have in no short supply. Patience is ever wanting.

There are tiny lavender buds in the greenhouse bed, aphids on the rose bush which is starting just to bud, and ants on the swelling peony. The lilacs are over as are the daffodils and tulips, but the Hellebore continues. The borage teases me by putting on excessive foliage and refusing to bud. The columbine has spent its last bloom and might be replanted out in the treeline as befitting a woodland species. There are mint, basil, and rosemary resting in small pots on the deck, and plans for a raised herb container bed. So much potential, so little ability to wait for it. But at this point time is all we've got.