Regardless if one stays or goes, the garden must be planted, if only to provide beauty and pollination and fragrance a few brief months. In went the herbs, the annuals, the seeds. My neighbors and I will have salad with edible flowers, and maybe some one else will provide tomatoes. In the back, late autumn vines will open up with color. The columbines are nodding, the violas brighten, and foxglove emerges confidently. I have sprinkled love-in-a-mist, alyssum, poppies, and hollyhocks in between plantings, and will not pull any weeds except the most identifiable to give the green shoots a fair chance. Somewhere, inside one of the Shakespeare plays, is a gorgeous piece about flowers, about cowslips and lilies. For years, I put off adding a roses, thinking I will not be here long enough to enjoy them, but last year, I rescued three, and they have survived the terrible winter, as has the dicentra, clematis, cinnamon ferns, and sweet william. Why is it writing the name of flowers gives as much joy as being in the garden? What are you planting and tending? Let’s compare garden notes.