Spring is getting sprung

The March thaw has arrived, belatedly, confirming the old saying of “better late than never.” Yesterday brought a glimpse of three of the local deer moving mid-day. Evidence that the worst of winter has passed? Soon we can look forward to the emergence of skunk cabbage; the blooming of marsh marigolds, pasque flowers, and prairie smoke. Birdsong will fill mornings and evenings. It will be time for planting, but first I need to prune some dead branches before we reach oak wilt season.

skunk cabbage, late March

Photo by J. Harrington

A week from today is the Vernal Equinox, at 10:33 am CDT locally. Astronomical spring will last for 92 days, 17 hrs, 40 mins. That barely seems like enough time to accomplish all the spring chores and enjoy the playing outside that needs to get done. And don’t forget, any time the temperature is above 40℉, ticks may be active. Lack of ticks and mosquitoes may be one of the better aspects of winter. Please feel free to remind me of that next January and February, no doubt it will take some of the pain out of the wind chill, below zero temperatures, and ice storms.

Tomorrow’s new snow will be gone by Wednesday. Some time in the next day or so, most  likely tomorrow, we’ll get to baking  another  loaf of Irish soda bread. Tuesday morning we get our new glasses and celebrate with a trip to a fly-fishing shop to see what we absolutely must have for the upcoming season. If we can wean ourselves from social media and stay away from news online or on tv, we may be able to have an enjoyable week. Must we suffer to be responsible?

The Poet Contemplates the Nature of Reality

By Jill Bialosky

On the side of the road a deer, frozen, frigid.

Go back to your life, the voice said.

What is my life? she wondered. For months she lost

herself in work—Freud said work is as important

as love to the soul—and at night she sat with a boy,

forcing him to practice his violin, helping him recite his notes.

Then the ice thawed and the deer came to life.

She saw her jump over the fence, she saw her in the twilight,

how free she looked. She saw her eyes shiny as marbles,

as much a part of this world as the fence a worker

pounds into the earth. At night she still sat with the boy.

He’s learning “Au Claire de la Lune.”

Do you know it? He has established a relationship

with his violin. He knows that it takes practice to master it:

the accuracy of each note, to wrestle his feelings to the listener.

But he’s impatient. Sometimes what he hears and feels

are not always the same. Again, the poet says.

She knows if he tries to silence his fervor, he might not ever know

who he is. The poet contemplates whether a deer can dream.

Rich blood-red berries on a branch, pachysandra in the garden.

A soft warm bed in the leaves.

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