|"they called her the hyacinth girl"|
Snap the ivy growing over your walkway, curling and knotting, choking the bricks; pull away dead leaves, uproot the bushes that you hate 95% of the year because they almost never flower and they just looked dead and scraggly, snaggle-toothed and bent, wild. Lug bags of dirt out and start replanting, uncover worms, gently move them aside as you plant green bulbs, their tiny shoots a stark bright against the loam and the grey sky. Of course the next day it snowed. Little shoots sad but still green looking out from the white blanket. But you can hope they'll live, bursting into that familiar sweet smell soon. You can hope for that. You sweep away the leaves and dirt hiding from where the ivy you cut back had been, and marvel that you let it get so bad all winter.