Look at the rich black earth. It is dotted with small specks, little white snowflakes drifting gently from the sky; an angel's gift to us all. Place hesitating fingers into that velvety thickness, immerse sensitive fingertips into the depths of the unknown, yet welcoming brown hearth. Watch the pink sink into the black, searching, digging, for something that still eludes it. Delicately, pry the treasure chest open. Carefully, the pink fumbles in the dark, like pink worms, blinded by the light. Let that inquisitive nose wander into the warm air. Allow it to snuffle curiously at the thick folds of fluffy soil. A cooking pot of scents overwhelms it, and it retreats to contemplate what it has learnt. It detects the delicate fragrance of Nature, the soothing perfume of the goodness of the air, and the hidden power of life that resides within the enchanting waterfall of earth. Each handful falls slowly through pink, wondering fingertips. The more experienced nose delights in the new aroma it detects. It is the smell of Spring, and in every magical dig deeper, the smell grows stronger. Forget the fact that the Sun is baking the owner of the nose alive, dismiss the feeling that the mysterious treasure those fingers are looking for will never be found. Erase from that mind that the owner of those fingers is tired and thirsty, and would like very much to sit down. Instead, revel in the feeling of simply being there, of sitting in hot, baking sunlight, digging through fluffy soil, and of snuffing at every handful of sweet black earth those fingers bring up.

The fumbling fingers have become more careful, sensing tender strands lying amongst the soft, caressing cloth. Slowly, the pink worms disappear almost completely from view, hidden between the warm, comfortable blanket of Nature's own creation. The worms are quite clearly having a whale of a time down there, feeling silk flowly through them, they dance deliciously between the cloth. The fingers are tense now, no longer dancing, as they near their goal....the ears detect a low, barely audible voice mutter, "Ah, here are the roots!", and, holding the slender waist that belongs to a sunflower maiden, passes the sleeping, delicate beauty to a waiting plush, pink cushion. The cushion moves, carefully placing our princess down in her more spacious new home.

The owners of both the large cushion and the trembling fingers sit back on their heels, wrapped still in the tendrils of Nature, looking contentedly at one another, and not the least aware that the Sun is still as hot as ever.

And that, is precisely why I love gardening.

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