The Winter Garden has a special grip on my imagination. It is beautiful, disturbing, the dead stalks of bright flowers defiant, hanging on through the endless winter, bowing in the wind, as if they know Spring is hovering somewhere, waiting to make a dramatic entrance. A friend told me today that she was upset watching the news this morning. I don’t wonder. Why, I asked, did she watch? What did she expect from their news?

She said she didn’t know. The winter garden was my news this afternoon, the lead story.