My favorite time to garden is in winter. Finally whitewashed in snow, the yard is a blank slate. I can forget all my mistakes and shortcomings (the evidence is buried) and dream of what could be. Freed from all the constraints of sun and rain and soil, I build elaborate landscapes in my mind. Fruits and vegetables and flowers grow with wild abandon, and boulders roll effortlessly into artfully asymmetric arrangements. Every effort I make is rewarded. Gnats and mosquitoes and humidity, if I can imagine them at all, retreat in humility before the splendor of it all.
Maybe next year.