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The strange luminous squares are light from the fine netting that protects a few plants. Here the innocent must sit in jail while guilty deer roam around at night munching on delicacies. They have whole forests to graze on but they prefer our favorites. The rose bush, sulky at this injustice only put out one deep pink bud and even it is loathe to open. The still air and mild sun may yet coax it open.

She is old. Her branches grow at odd angles. One ambitious branch wants to turn into a second trunk. A quirky old dowager, I feel close to her, honor her and try to banish any hint that she may not outlive me. Her bark, the mosses that grow at the foot of her main trunk, even the odd fungi that grow on some of her limbs are old family jewels that no sapling can inherit. They will perish eventually with her, like our trappings, our ideas and fancies. It has been very dry. The soil at the base of her trunk was dusty yesterday when I planted a few daffodils. I added compost and water. Like her acolyte I will have a drink too… a toast of Pino Grigio for the old lady