One thing that all the seasons have in common is that it is impossible, in the midst of any one of them, to imagine things any other way. When the trees are stripped, you cannot recall being unable to see through them because of the green curtain. When you are raking grass clippings, or piles of leaves, you forget wobbling in the footprints you yourself have punched in the snow on the way to the compost pile. Spring peepers banish silence.
But what time is it now? All the trees are thick with leaves (some are tired). Only the Virginia creepers have turned. The garden is going strong. It needs no maintenance; all you have to do is go out every afternoon and pick — what one neighbor called “shopping.” Some plants are done — I pulled up the cranberry beans, and the tomatoes have had it — but the second rounds of lettuce and peas are just coming up. Maybe we can skip death and go right to rebirth. Christianity without the cross — what a sales pitch. In town a few fooled magnolias are showing buds.