This is my second fall of planting bulbs. Daffodil. Tulip. Paper Whites. Hyacinth. Crocus.
Memories of last spring gave me momentum to be extravagant.
It seems futile. My back aches, my hair gets frazzled, and dirt finds its way in under the gloves. I'm soiled and sweaty this morning. Instant gratification won't reward me any time soon. The bulbs and I wait.
Two hundred pockets of hope were buried in the dirt this morning.
When they burst out next spring, so will I.
Buried treasure. Buried pleasure. Buried dreams. The deep darkness grows it, knows it well.