Well, here is spring, and no spring flood to dabble in. The spongy mud around the house cracks open like a mouth begging for water. Yet, though this year’s spring ground is thirsty, moisture still hangs in the air. I can taste it in that breath of tang that flavors the sharp, stale winter wind. It clings to the trees in a ghost of dew and turns the old moss livid green. Hold your breath, and you can eave’s drop on the
haziest shadow of an eave’s drip echoing off dead boughs. It is always misting the world, so one cannot go out of doors without coming in dry and yet feel inexplicably wet. March is here, when the wind will toss everything about in a gale of spring cleaning.
Already the dominion of growing things is trickling out of the house. Aubrey is gutting the greenhouse today and setting up heaters to warm it for the first of the “babies”. Honestly, someone needs to make a scented candle called “Greenhouse”. It beats Vanilla by a mile. I forget how much I miss that heavy draft of living breath until it hits me the first time I open the greenhouse door every year. For now flats of delicate green march along the top shelf while lonely stacks of pots and tipsy mountains of empty trays tumble over every superfluous inch of space below.
Talk is all about what we will do in the garden, how big it will be. There is yet a month until we can safely plant anything out of doors; but let the sun come out for just a week and pour liquid life onto the earth and we will pounce on the fallow ground with the voracious hum of tillers and puttering of tractors.
An update this late is perforce short. Signing off for now!
Craig, Karen and The Six Arrows
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