Nevermind that the porch light was on, the moon was there, pearly behind the sliver-rimmed clouds.
And the owls called in the darkness, greeting each other for the night.
And the soil turned easily under my grandmother’s shovel. (Was it really hers? The tools have intermingled. It was an inheritance in my hands either way).
And the sweet yarrow gave way for three small plots of what will become a magnificent garden, started by these sedums from my fairy godmother, the one who said, just six weeks ago, “I’m not going to tell you what to do, but you should buy that house.”
There are more plants awaiting a home in the soil: bee balm from a friend with two green thumbs, mystery day lilies adopted from a curbside giveaway, and of course all the friends I tended on another patch of earth for seven summers, ready to divide and multiply like a proverb.
Two years ago I was gardening by headlamp until midnight on the summer solstice. Today’s a day or two late, and I was wearing a jacket, and I spent thirty minutes, not ten hours, but nevermind, nevermind!: clearing space and putting down roots is the same magic on any scale.
As the moon lifts higher and the owls fly out to hunt, these sedums that I now call “mine” are settling themselves into the earth.
I am, too.