Is pronking a gambol?

It was a busy day. Due to some unhelpful weather and human miscommunication, we drove off this afternoon to pick up our first CSA share only to discover it/they won’t be packed until tomorrow morning. We did stop on the way home to visit the Daughter  Person, Son-In-Law, and, especially, the Granddaughter. Since they live only a couple  of miles from the CSA farm, it was a classic “we were in the neighborhood” visit.

springtime at the CSA shed

Photo by J. Harrington

On the way home, we paused at a sheep farm to watch what looked like a couple of dozen of this spring’s lambs gambol and pronk and generally enjoy life outside the womb. It was close to the high point of the day but was, of course, outdone by the visit with the Granddaughter. Blood is thicker than springtime frolics.

Still no sign of marsh marigolds in the ditches. Maybe next week, after it warms a little. We double-checked today and confirmed that temperatures regularly in the 50’s means we can clean up the leaf piles without disturbing any pollinators that overwintered, although the good Bee folks at UMN suggest waiting until we’re seeing 60’s is even better. In part, that’s going to be determined by the rain/sunshine ratio over the next few weeks. We’re not inclined to do yard work when it’s cold and wet.

The Necessity

By Alice B. Fogel

It isn't true about the lambs.

They are not meek.

They are curious and wild,

full of the passion of spring.

They are lovable,

and they are not silent when hungry.

Tonight the last of the triplet lambs

is piercing the quiet with its need.

Its siblings are stronger

and will not let it eat.

I am its keeper, the farmer, its mother,

I will go down to it in the dark,

in the cold barn,

and hold it in my arms.

But it will not lie still—it is not meek.

I will stand in the open doorway

under the weight of watching trees and moon,

and care for it as one of my own.

But it will not love me—it is not meek.

Drink, little one. Take what I can give you.

Tonight the whole world prowls

the perimeters of your life.

Your anger keeps you alive—

it's your only chance.

So I know what I must do

after I have fed you.

 

I will shape my mouth to the shape

of the sharpest words,

even those bred in silence.

I will impale with words every ear

pressed upon open air.

I will not be meek.

You remind me of the necessity

of having more hope than fear,

and of sounding out terrible names.

I am to cry out loud

like a hungry lamb, cry loud

enough to waken wolves in the night.

No one can be allowed to sleep.

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