Almost seven years ago, I found a sprig of holly, a seedling probably, and packed it up along with a host of other plants to come with us to Elsinore. This year, maybe, I could clip a sprig of holly from that tree, without doing lasting harm.
The little cedars are now taller than I am, and there are at least three patches of winter aconite that should be showing up after Christmas. The gingko now has the mottled, rough bark of a mature tree; juncos and white-throated sparrows hop-pop beneath the snow-bent asters; I could make a wreath of spent grape vines.
O the rising of the sun
And the running of the deer
The playing of the merry organ
Sweet singing in the choir
No garden, and few texts, are ever exactly finished. But right now is a pretty nice moment, and this week should hold some even better ones.