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?
