I am sitting on my porch with the heel of a bottle of rather nice Languedoc red. It’s a delicious evening in Stratford, air like wine. Sorta goes with the bottle.

My daffs are out, the hyacinths are sprouting, and the forsythia bush is in bloom. The lawn is spangled with tiny blue flowers that I had nothing to do with — they just showed up last year, and this year there are more. The clematis I planted last summer seems not to have survived, probably a victim of Judy-next-door’s fence-replacement project, but the rose of Sharon look okay. And the rose bush is still with us.

It’s gonna rain tomorrow, so I’m luxuriating while I can.