Today was Sunday in every sense of the word.
After battling a cold for much of the last week, I finally made it out of the apartment this afternoon. At the house, there were still roses in bloom from Valentine's Day.
Outside in the garden, there was still a lot of snow.
The helleborus are very close to blooming, though.
The birch tree seems quite healthy, too.
The phlox seems a little beat up, but I'm sure it'll be fine in a few months. One thing about gardening is that, after you've been through a few seasons, you learn not to panic, knowing that most plants are more resilient than you might at first expect, as if you were the one who had just spent three weeks buried under a foot of snow.
The dwarf conifer seemed completely unfazed as the snow slowly peeled away.
The flower store already had potted pink azaleas for sale. I felt a passing regret at the thought that most of these plants -- which might otherwise have a lifespan of years, and possibly decades -- would probably never end up in the ground, but would be thrown away after the bloom faded.
The building on the corner of Broadway looked magnificent against the azure sky.
Back in the apartment, we all promptly fell asleep or -- as Stephen (who took the photo) suggested -- 'Les chats dorment dans l'apres midi.'
I woke up in the amber light of the last rays of the setting sun.
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