March then, drink!

Spring has sprung in a mighty little way...the lettuce and radish seeds planted in manic cold February- have germinated.

This is not headline news, no more than a ghaspy whisper was uttered when I came upon life coming to life- there in the tiny fragile stems supporting the first minute leaves of what is to be nourishment by Easter time- comes a hopeful sign.

This is no silent spring, pray we never know that kind of solitude- the birds have gathered to join in the chorus-

"The seeds have sprouted, life goes on!"

Everywhere and under there, come the signs, the songs, the assurance of hopeful days, stacked up-one after another, of newness and freshness and alive- be alive. And the poet in me awakens, refreshed- "March then, drink!" I say.

From the humble beginnings of a straw bale nursery comes life, in a green minor way-the struggle is over for those tiny seeds- see now how life bursts forth!

Hear the chirps -a liquid language of the feathered things, feel the lightness of sunlit rays, smell the scent of rot and decay made new in the black dirt's soily perfume. Look there in the last light of this new day, how beautiful it is to behold, how wonderful to acknowledge-

all is well...

For too long I have felt parched by winter's fast- a great thirst finally quenched by the champagne of spring, bubbling up and over the thawing brim of earth-

Is this not the tonic of life?

to sing to it sweetly

As the sap runs in the Maples these days, it runs in me as well. Spring has begun the thaw in my veins, I feel a thinner blood coursing there. The tonic I take does not derive itself from digging Sassafras or searching the ground, yet- for new green... it is the bird songs, the new tunes I'm hearing these days that really gets my blood flowing.
As I exited the truck yesterday after work, heading straight for the chicken coop to gather eggs, petting the heads of the ever playful, faithful Gideon and Gracie(faithful as in waiting for perhaps a cracked egg to be tossed their way...)I noticed the newest singer on the farm. The melody stopped me in my tracks. Did it come from the pines? Yes, it sounded like it came from over there...so, off my course I wandered-must have gotten to close, for the shrill whistles stopped for a time. I stood, still... and waited for the music, the song of Spring...I could not detect the little bird making the sound with my eyes, though thankfully, as I listened-the song began again. I found myself a happy spot there, in that moment...the experience welling up in me as a yearning, an awakening too-and a putting to bed, almost- of the harsh cold winter.
I find winter can be, at this time of year especially- like a child who is too sleepy, disgruntled, dragging it's feet before it retires...whining in winds, crying in precipitation like tears from rain storms, and even still-an ice and snow covering as it's security blanket. Perhaps that is why the little birds sing...to help put winter to bed, to sing to it sweetly- a lullaby of Spring.
Beautiful day to you, take care-