A few days ago I got startled and suckered into a supermarket checkout-stand impulse purchase. I had to have this magazine. Its glossy cover radiated color: bright blue flower planters, stuffed with pink pelargoniums, purple petunias, egg-yolk yellow marigolds, and rose-red dragon wing begonias, set against the soft-focus shimmer of chartreuse and gold in the background. (Yeah, it was the cover, but it might as well have been a centerfold.) It's as though I'd forgotten what color was, in these latter days of gray, with crusted snow banks like the insides of an overfrosted old freezer, and evergreens faded to khaki. Even dreams these days are dun-colored (and sometimes fretful and ridiculous: last night's featured an extremely large rabbit hoisting an extremely tiny rabbit up to one of the whiskey barrel planters, the better for it to gobble away at the tops while simultaneously digging out the plants by their roots). When I can't claw my way out of this total failure of imagination—how could it ever be warm again? and green again?—I turn to these memories of summer past, stowed away for this chilly day, from Hands in the Dirt, and try to start dreaming again in "green bean green".