A bouquet was composed

I told Matt he had to be the first to look out the window this morning. If it had frosted, I was not going to get out of bed to see the crystal-rimed wreckage of the world I once knew, loved, and frolicked in. I was not going to get up today, tomorrow, or ever again until my doom and gloom had come full circle and things actually seemed more bleak on the dark side of the down comforter.

Matt looked out the window and gave a non-committal report, something like, "well a little bit maybe or not at all a tad, shall we have scrambled eggs now?"

Clearly I was going to have to do the deed myself, or risk rotting under the blankets for no reason at all. So I stumped out of bed and down the steps and into the garden.

And infuriatingly, Matt was right. It had frosted... Well, a little bit - maybe. Or not at all. A tad?

The morning glory leaves were slumped and black and wet looking. But as the day bloomed and the dew wore off, nothing important had been damaged. My two swallowtail caterpillars went all the way from inanimate to lethargic in the course of a few short hours, which meant that they weren't dead, which made me happy.

I spent the rest of the day sort of ricocheting in slow motion around the garden, becoming absorbed in a task for a moment and then inexplicably propelled away and in a diagonal direction, to smack into something more engrossing down the line a bit. So most of the tomatillos were harvested, and some of the jalapenos, tomatoes, and eggplants. Cotton blossoms were admired. Tobacco budworms were plucked and flicked. The little lemon tree was carted back outside for pollination purposes. And a bouquet was composed.