As the snow peels back and a rich and sleeping earth thaws to reveal itself, leaves and branches in various stages of decomposition stare me in the face. Last summer's oregano and hydrangeas reach stringy brown arms in a spray of limbs around our dormant garden. This past weekend I hacked out the long legs of last year's raspberry brambles, pruned back all manners of flower stems, turned the soil in our vegetable beds, and made a mental list of all that needs to be done in order for our summer garden to bloom.
While I snipped and raked, the growth of seasons past sifting through my fingers, I had a sense of wonder at all the surrounding decay. The sky was gray and mysterious, thunder rumbling in the distance, and I was there with the past. The echoes of last year and the year before whispering their stories in my ear.