Every year the vine has to be pruned in March. With all the turmoil about the Corona virus, I almost forgot. My little house has a small garden much beloved to me. There is a patio shaded by a vine planted many years ago. I think it was planted by the first people who owned this house, built in 1960. Other years there was more snow and it made it easier to reach up and cut the branches, already forming buds and green when the shears cut. This year I stood precariously on a chair trying to avoid a poke in the eye by some errant twig.  I managed it though. The other picture shows brave tulips coming up out of the last of the snow. These old favorites are red, red as a whore’s lipstick, I think I wrote in an old poem. I saw a bee today too. I know you can’t believe it, but I really did. Spring has no time for the virus.