Baby Trees in Green Plastic Bags

There are so many things I should be doing rather than sketching our sweet row of baby trees on Paintbrush, which has to be the Donkey Kong of computer graphic programs. It is my way of procrastinating this cold spring morning. The girls are off with Martin at an Easter Egg hunt. I stayed behind under the auspices of cleaning house but I have yet to clear away our breakfast dishes. Cleaning House is terribly boring, only rewarding for a few moments before everybody piles back in and slops it again. It can definitely wait.

The world is so green again! The forsythia bush at the bottom of our hill is in its first flush of gold and the daffodils are about to ruffle out. Our ten new trees this year wait patiently in their green plastic bags and burlap to join our family: redbuds, an American sycamore to replace our sad, split Big Snow tree, one dwarf pear for the children's garden, a crabapple, and three dark-leaf ornamental plums for the inside of the side garden. I love trees more than animals and desire them far above puppies or kitties or even the soft downy ducklings running around in the black tub at Agway. Trees ask so little of us and give so much; they are endlessly graceful and patient; they don't scramble up on my lap and lick my face and most of them will outlive my petty and enormous troubles and joys. . . .and I can love them all for 14.99 a piece. Can't beat that!

I really must face the breakfast dishes so I can go on unfettered with my Saturday morning life. I do believe last night was our last freezing night for a while. Martin reports that the microgreens are up in the pump garden, hundreds and hundreds of tiny leaflets that will, in a matter of weeks, fill our salad bowls. So first, the crumby plates and coffee dregs--next, the whole green thrumming world!