|the yaks are back!|
Photo by J. Harrington
When we looked, there was no sign of pasque flowers where a few had bloomed last year. Too early? Too late? Claimed by the major snow storm a week or so ago? In the next few days we'll wander back and see how far the skunk cabbage has progressed. Meanwhile, the bluebird houses are ready for occupants, although none have been seen yet. This time last year they had been here for three weeks already. The swallow/martin house has been cleaned out. Let the nesting begin!
|how do we combine this with traditional farming to make a more livable world?|
Photo by J. Harrington
We had an interesting series of Tweets this morning with others involved in local foods and non-industrial scale farming. Although there remain many points of disagreement, we seemed to be in accord on some major themes. One of the concerns we took from that exchange is how challenging it is to determine if one is dealing with facts or fiction. Is organic dairy better for the milk drinker or the environmental commons? Where can one find relatively unbiased studies on which to make a decision? If we want to have major elements of our local food systems be organic, do organic requirements undermine the viability of smaller operations that may have higher unit costs? How much does the source of funding bias "independent studies?" We encountered, on occasion, similar issues in the green building arena, especially effects of sustainable elements on the construction cost versus longer term operational costs. Also, some folks were sometimes accused of gaming the system to accumulate points for features that may not have otherwise been high priority and might not contribute much to a more livable world.
All of this, plus the continuance of National Poetry Month, prompts us to share today's poem. We think it could easily be added to a list of poems that could save America. What do you think?
At start of spring I open a trench
in the ground. I put into it
the winter's accumulation of paper,
pages I do not want to read
again, useless words, fragments,
errors. And I put into it
the contents of the outhouse:
light of the sun, growth of the ground,
finished with one of their journeys.
To the sky, to the wind, then,
and to the faithful trees, I confess
my sins: that I have not been happy
enough, considering my good luck;
have listened to too much noise;
have been inattentive to wonders;
have lusted after praise.
And then upon the gathered refuse
of mind and body, I close the trench,
folding shut again the dark,
the deathless earth. Beneath that seal
the old escapes into the new.
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.