This week, the garden at Groundhog Hill holds little interest for me.
The zinnias are no longer beautiful. The Peruvian purple corn is no longer intriguing. The pumpkins hold little, if any, promise for future joy.
I feel bereft.
The weather forecast for this week is severe thunderstorms every day, and that is perfectly fine to me.
Come, wind. Come, storms. Do your worst.
This week, I do not wish to pick up debris, to pull any weeds, to move forward.