It’s supposed to be winter, right? The garden’s supposed to be dead, or to put it more gently, at least in deep repose. But over the past few days I’ve found myself studying a patch of Rye I planted late in the season. Too late, I thought at the time. But I had some extra seed, and I hate seeing bare ground, so I figured I’d give it a try. To my surprise, it not only sprouted right before that last snow storm, whose snow is still lingering in spots; but it is even growing now a little each day. The picture above shows that it’s about an inch tall, where four weeks ago it was barely poking through the soil.

It brings to mind a passage from Verlyn Klinkenborg’s book “The Rural Life,” in which he’s talking about the notion of seasons, and how nature doesn’t always conform literally to our timeline:

I had always though of [winter] as a slow patch of death, of stasis at least, in the plant world. That’s the sort of thing you believe when you take the idea of season too literally… [But] there, at the end of autumn, stood the whole shape of spring, held back only by the still-dwindling daylight, by a keen, continuous apprehension of time.

I guess this little patch of the garden has not only taken shape, but has started moving into spring with the lengthening days. It’s fun to watch!