The motherwort in full bloom called for grey goose and tinctures. The lemon balm called for hot water immediately, and more for drying. The nettles made great omelettes and jars of tea. Kale came in abundance, spring yard salads decorated the table, the march of the flowers steadily brought the warm breezes out of the chilly frog-voiced nights, starting from the yellows of daffodils and forsythia into the blues of iris, violets and bachelor buttons. Now the roses crawl the fences and barn sides, and I am glad to know my home soil. The asparagus sprouted, potatoes are peeping up, tomatoes and blue berries setting, blackberries forming, and raspberries setting their canes further into the overgrown yard. I am of here. I belong. This is home.