There are purple spiked flowers and lilacs and white cherry blossoms and the rhododendron that mother is flying to see next spring because it is ancient and rambling and as large as the house, there are hostas growing inches a day and rose bushes and hydrangeas and blue grasses.  Peonies, iris, lilies, candy tuft, bleeding heart and snow on the mountain and maybe it is the season I am in.  Maybe it is the absence, the vacancy, the empty space.  But this back yard makes me want to weep, pushes me into the softest state, is knocking gentle against the part of me that had stopped counting on the beauty of birth.  There is weight in the way the earth makes itself over again and again.