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The weathered cedar potting bench stood ready, its

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scarred wooden surface a testament to

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seasons past and roots yet to be planted.

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Clara swept a stray oak leaf away with

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the back of her glove as the bright

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spring sunshine

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washed over the yard, instantly warming the cool

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morning air.

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Today was the day to finally coax life

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from the rows of wading terracotta pots.

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She lined them up in descending sizes, their

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reddish -orange clay textured and porous, smelling

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faintly of dry earth and summer rain.

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With nimble fingers, she dug into a bag

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of rich compost, filling each vessel to the

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brim.

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Next came the herbs, sweet Genovese basil, trailing

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rosemary, and ruffled mint that begged

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to be crushed between two fingers.

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She tucked each green shoot into its new

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home, tamping the soil gently around the base

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and

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whispering a silent encouragement for them to thrive.

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As the last watering can was emptied, and

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the yard filled with the sharp, clean fragrance

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of damp soil and bruised leaves, Clara leaned

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back against the bench.

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A productive, cheerful atmosphere hummed in the clear

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daylight around her, buzzing with

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the promise of long afternoons and fresh harvests

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to come.