Only when it is time to plant the tomatoes. This is the refrain I hear when I think about planting dahlia tubers; sow sunflower seeds; plant the zinnias. The soil temperature has to remain in the fifties, if not ideally in the sixties. As I write, an arctic air cuts through my open window ( because it is spring) and chills my short-sleeved (ditto) arms.
I am working on the third book of the Meterling series. Sometimes I ignore it, thinking to get other responsibilities out of the way. Yet that never works, for there is always a query, a quibble, a tugging in the mind that feels dissatisfied for not working. So I distract myself with a garden that feels unbalanced. Warmth seeps in the day, creeps away at night. There is a new foal at the farm, I hear. Still spring then, the season of all things new, but not yet time to plant the flowers I love.