Somewhere out there is a quotation that goes something like, “There is no more perfect expression of hope than a gardener planting a bulb in the autumn.”
Or something like that.
Or, in my case, iris rhizomes. They always grew like jiminy crickets for me in Midwestern clay, which is supposed to be sub-optimal, so I have my fingers crossed that the nine pretty purple-and-white varieties I planted along my retaining wall will like it there.
The soil is … odd. Not sandy, exactly, but fluffy. It’s also densely crisscrossed with the roots of the horrible groundcover I killed to make room for the iris. I pulled a lot out to get my rhizomes in the ground, and packed them back in with potting soil, just to let them know I love them.
And now, I wait.