January 25th
We are deep in winter though the Chinooks came through today and it is 45 degrees out. Next week will be -15 again. The almanac says I should be sharpening my hoes and pruning shears. I suppose it is just for something to do, but the winds bring warmth that awaken and tease me, taunting me with a feeling that winter should be ending soon. This wind is an imp, welcome, relieving, and falsehearted.
February 20th
Still winter. It is 5 degrees outside. Tonight it is supposed to warm up. I think about color. I look up and drink in the blue of the sky. This must be color enough for now. Birds in the trees still sing for me a song, though it be hushed. I am glad they are here to share the colds days with me. I pray for them during the starkly cold nights. I suppose they likewise pray for me, knowing I am a stranger here.
March 19th
The almanac tells me to go outside and clear the flower beds. I do it with delight. Today is warm. We’ve all - the baby, dog, cats, and I - have tip toed outside to see and to breath. Windows are opened and doors are cracked. Tomorrow will be chilled again. There should be snow by the end of the week. The first day of Spring comes soon, but Winter only shares the stage. It does not leave it. No curtain call yet. The lilacs have falsely believed this week’s warm spell and the buds are swelling. Silly little flowers. Wait your turn. The sun is still low. There is cold left for us to bear.
April 23th
The days are longer. Some early budding trees are wearing pale green buttons on their branches. Others swell with ideas, but most still wear the grey camouflage of winter. I look for the Spring bulbs that will soon paint our grey and brown gardens. Geese walk in pairs and with young ones soon. It is cold today, but the ground is not frozen any longer. The almanac says it time to prune the fruit trees. The smell of moistened soil fills the basement where I have sown a few seeds in anticipation. May the seeds smell my anticipation and grow.
May 9th
Might I till and tend the soil yet? Might I plant peas and chard, parsnips and parsley, carrots and beets? May the apple and cherry trees in bloom keep their bud, and the lilacs, that are bursting, spill out of their wintery shells in safety? I am ready. My neighbor, the cotton tailed bunny, whose tracks I have seen all the long winter, she is ready. The birds who have weathered outside my bedroom window, they are ready. Spring, be kind and let the smell of green linger. Blossoms are tender, but more so, am I.
May 29nd
Warm today. Possibly some rain late tomorrow. Lilacs have passed with hard frost. I am hardening my starts and will transplant over the weekend. Peas are up, along with peaking carrot tops, beets, and pretty little rows of miniature greens. Tulips are like rainbows in the front flower beds. Dandelions are golden dew drops, and quite as plentiful. The trees wear green, though the leaves are still small. All is Color – even the cherries on my cheeks.
June 10th
Heavy snow. Spring can be fickle.
June 25th
It is Summer hot out and the lawns needs mowing. How inconsistent, how subtle, and restrained - how sure is Spring. Adieu, then, until next year. Perhaps then I’ll get to know you better.
2 comments:
Becky, this is wonderful! I love your word pictures and the anticipation of spring. I had to laugh about spring's late arrival and false starts. As a alienated Montanan, I can relate. Your peom remminded me of Edna St. Vincent Millay's poem:
SPRING
O what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
I did love this work. Very creative. I love how you are learning about spring through the elements-- soil, plants, rain-- even hard frost, yet you even bring in the almanac which shows that you aren't solely dependent on what you observe. And you show a lot of your curiosity about what spring is. I love the sweet longing for spring-- wanting to see things grow with an open mind that anything can happen. And that you already are preparing "in anticipation." The constant use of observations drip like honey in this work (couldn't resist it, sorry).
How sad that there is heavy snow in June. And yet, this shows a good irony with "how sure is Spring." Spring, as you described it, is not constant at all- which, I'm sure intrigues you to long for next year once it is Summer. And you know Summer so well that you are bored. One would think that Summer should be sure and constant. I like the irony.
Thanks Becca.
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