No peeking

It was only a matter of time. In a moment of hope last fall, I planted hundreds of bulbs in the yard: yellow narcissus, white daffodils with orangey-red trumpets, lemony ruffled jonquils. All in enormous clumps. Down the driveway bed, in the big composed beds front and back, and even around the pool.

We've had virtually no winter to speak of this year (a fact that delights me, I must admit) so my one fear is that the bulbs would start shooting up prematurely. It won't kill them, but when true spring hits, the little leaves will sport dingy brown tips. Day after day, I've scanned the yard, watching for the first celery-colored tuft.

Yesterday, there it was. Part of me was thrilled: the bulbs lived! It was a good investment. The other part slumped. I covered it up with mulch, but by the time I came out an hour later, its little friends had all pushed through, clamoring for the sunshine.

And who was I to stop them?