It’s dank in the winter and smells like bad breath in the summer. However, it’s a great place for wine and storing daffodil bulbs. It was a bit late in the season but I decided to go ahead and plant the three-year-old King Alfred and Pheasant’s Eye Narcissus I’d been storing and see what happened. Perhaps, like me, they were ready for rebirth and would seize the chance to live again. I brought the bulbs upstairs but the world got dark before I was done sorting them into baskets. I looked out the window, feeling glum and unexpectedly a bit nervous. I thought suddenly about that poem by Robert Frost. You know, the one about the world ending in fire or ice? I didn’t know which would be our fate, but felt pessimistically that we humans would probably have a hand in our destruction. Unless we got KO’d by a meteor from outer space first, of course. There are some scientists who believe this could happen.What’s wrong? Atherton asked, jumping onto the sill. The first fat drops of rain were splatting across the window and making the privet’s limbs bow low and then spring back upright.
