Saturday, March 7, 2015

Spring: it's started

The midday temperature is about 40F. The road is about half mud. Wild River State Park is demonstrating how to tap a maple tree. The snow on the roof is melting and the drips are forming icicles and then mud. Eventually, the groundwater will get recharged. Runoff will reach the Sunrise River and then the St. Croix. Spring's high water will, in several months, become Summer's lower flows. By then, sap will have been turned to syrup. Eggs will have turned to hatchlingsand then nestlings and then a new generation of birds will be on the wing. If we're lucky and pay attention, we'll notice and enjoy at least some of these changes. Seeds will sprout, flowers blossom, butterflies and bees pollinate and fruits and seeds develop. Life's annual cycle continues. As far as we know, it couldn't happen without water.

the start of Spring's flows
the start of Spring's flows
Photo by J. Harrington

Here are today's Shades of Green with links to color definition and images.
Doesn't Spring, with it's rebirth and regrowth and returning of migrants seem like the beginning of the year? When you think of the seasons, do you think of life, including your own, more as a circle, or as a straight line? Scientists claim we are comprised of atoms that started, billions of years ago, in the stars. Joni Mitchell, years and years ago, wrote in her haunting hit  Woodstock: "we are star dust, we are golden." Could this mean we are the ultimate recyclables. That would fit with Einstein's concept that matter can neither be created nor destroyed, wouldn't it?. Do you suppose we'll ever manage to redefine capitalism from creative destruction to creative reuse and recycling? I hope so, because it's looking more and more to me as if that's likely to be the way we'll be around long enough to "get ourselves back to the garden."

Recycling Center

By Brenda Hillman 

The labeled bins on the California hillside
catch the glint and quarter-glint of passing cars.
Families pull up with their interesting trash
and start unloading: Here, sweetheart,
this goes over in Newspaper. The bundle
hits with a thud. Diet soda cans
spin almost noiselessly down, and the sun-
permitting bottles from a day’s pleasure
are tossed into Mixed Glass by the children
who like to hear the smash, unknowable, chaotic,
as matter greets itself and starts to change.

What mystery is inside a thing! If we peered
into the bin, we could see it waiting there,
could believe everything is alive and specific
and personal, could tell by the tilt of one
bottle against the next that it’s difficult
to be singular, to have identity, to keep
an outline safe in the terrors of space.
Even the child knows this. Bye, bottle! she shouts,
tossing it in; and the bottle lies there
in the two o’clock position, temporarily itself,
before being swept into the destiny of mixture. . .

And what if some don’t want to. What if some items
in the piles of paper, the orange and blue
envelopes from a magazine sweepstakes, numbers
pressing through the cloudy windows
with our names, some among those pale sheets curled
with moisture, would rather stay as they are.
It’s spring; we’ve thrown away mistakes—
tax forms, recipes, tennis-ball-sized
drafts of poems—that which was blank
shall be made blank again—but what if
that failed letter wants to be a failure,
not go back to pulp, and thought .. .
Or across the parking lot, where light insists
on changing the dull cans, a few cans don’t want
to be changed, though they should want to,
shouldn’t they, should want to be changed
by light, light which is called sweet reason,
honeyed, spectra, magnitude, light that goes
from the parking lot looking helpless
though it is matter that has been betrayed. . .

All afternoon the bins are carried off
by those who know about where things should go,
who are used to the clatter the cans make,
pouring out; and the families, who believed change
would heal them are pulling away in their vans,
slightly embarrassed by that which refused . . .
The bins fill again with hard substances,
the hills bear down with their fugitive gold,
the pampas grass bending low to protect
what was briefly certain and alive with hope. 

Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.