Spring Morning in the Garden

On a cool sunny morning I wander the backyard, stricken with an inexpressible glee as I listen to the chattering birds—is that the first chipping sparrow I hear?—and wonder at the leaves just now springing into view.

There are the raspberries, hanging on along the side of the garage, though they produce fewer berries every year, and we've been replacing them with other things: a volunteer pagoda dogwood and a miniature woodlot where I split wood and sometimes convert the pieces into kindling.

 Out back I come upon the reddish leaves of a very fine chokecherry tree. 

Right next to it is a honeysuckle. They call it an "invasive" and I wish it would invade further.

And right at my feet I notice the buckeye tree that we've been nurturing for a few years, at least to the extent of putting one of those peony supports around it so it doesn't get stepped on.

 I had big plans for the morning, as usual, and now I put them in motion. I take some cuttings from the yellow-twig dogwood in the front yard, and after digging a hole and filling it with soil and mulch, I plant them along the edge of the woods. I doubt if the plant will take, but it's worth a try. Nothing else seems to do well out there.

My final task is to cut back the sage bush that gets bigger every year. As I dump the old but still fragrant branches into the yard waste container alongside the still fragrant Christmas tree I chopped up and tossed in yesterday, a heady and complex smell emerges, and it reminds me of a remark I came across recently by the Japanese poet Sōshitsu, who died in 1527:

In enjoying blossoms, appreciating scents, and loving wine, I am no different from anyone else. Past to present, these three have been favored by stalwarts and sages, and who, from the oldest village elder to the tenderest youth, does not feel the same?

Year after year, we invite the neighbors to come help themselves to a few springs if they need some fresh sage.

You're also welcome to come take a few. But not quite yet.