Change never ceases to amaze me.

Although I am more astounded by the things that stay the same.

Take plants, for instance.

The seasons flow one into the other and plants grow, sow and die with them, ever changing day to day to day.

Then spring comes along again.

The buds are swelling on the red maples, the lilacs are nearly ready to pop, and it looks like the forsythia are actually going to blossom this year. That will make it only the second time since I planted them eons ago. I gave them a severe pruning last year, which should make them look more respectable when and if they bloom. I just hope it will happen as it did that first time, with the forsythia, the rhododendron and the flowering plum blossoming all at once and nearly making me weep at their exquisite display.

Happy accidents do happen if the little stream of crocus in the front perennial bed is any testament. I never expected to have a frothy little river wend its way through the garden when I tossed them in the ground, mostly purples with the touch of white and the occasional glow of a yellow, almost as if the sun dappled the ebb and flow itself.

The lupine is rising again, the rugosas are dripping with peridot buds, and the horse chestnut – the beloved conker – might possibly have lived through the winter.

The rows of garlic are poking through the topsoil, a relief as I feared the winter might have done in the bulbs since I hadn’t mulched like a good gardener.

The honeyberry plants are showing signs of life, and the honeysuckle has started to leaf out. Last year’s newcomers, the cherry trees, look like they have survived the winter without complaint. The raspberries are looking fine, the chives are thriving, and the geraniums are just poking up from the mulch.

On Easter eve, I was digging in a bed I started last spring, surprised that the soil was not mucky despite the heavy rain earlier in the day. Every once in a while I would look up and survey my domain, feeling a wee bit smug that so much was happening when just last year I was still contemplating snow in the backyard.

I glanced over at the apple trees, recently pruned by myself and two 9-year-old helpers, my nephews, who exhibited a great deal of enthusiasm for whacking water sprouts off the trees.

Those same helpers asked me just a few days ago how long I had been writing my column.

I couldn’t recall exactly, so I looked it up.

Turns out I have been writing for 12 years this weekend.

Having read that first column again for the first time in, perhaps, 12 years, I realized one thing.

As a gardener, I may be a bit wiser and have a few more wrinkles, scars and sore joints than I did 12 years past, but what hasn’t changed is my sense of wonder.

I had to laugh as I read about the new-to-me varieties that I planned to try – some that are now commonplace in my garden – and my hope that all would perform just as the descriptions promised.

I haven’t changed a bit in that regard. In just these past few months of ordering seeds and preparing for this year’s garden, I have been marveling over the amazing cucumber seeds I discovered, varieties that come from around the globe.

I have Red Noodle beans and Red Rice beans: the first a red version of asparagus beans that grow a foot long, while the latter produces a bean seed the size of a grain of rice. And it’s red to boot. Sure, I may not know what to do with them, but why should that stop me?

I have a yellow-podded snow pea to exclaim over. I have a purple Italian onion to try. Then there are those heirloom potato varieties to plant. A white watermelon to grow. A pumpkin that produces hull-free seeds. A calendula with electrifying orange petals to admire. A melon called Green Nutmeg to savor. A vaseful of nasturtiums to dream over. A basil, Spicy Saber, to experiment with.

And that’s just the new stuff.

In yet another example of hope springing eternal, and in spite of my annual avowal that I won’t try to start any seeds myself, I have succumbed and sown some tomatoes and sundry other flowering plants.

After 12 years of recording my occasional triumphs and my many failures, I have but one thing to say.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Well, just one more thing.

Thank the Lord for that.

Janine Pineo’s e-mail address is jpineo@bangordailynews.net.