Welcome, Spring!

On our first full day of Spring, the midday snow showers were mercifully brief and light. Melting commenced by midafternoon. I’m hoping by this time next week it will seem not unreasonable to go exploring for emerging skunk cabbage. The ten day forecast makes it look like we’ll get a slow melt with nightly refreezing, which should help limit flooding concerns. I’m old enough that visits from Santa don’t get me very excited, but the arrival of open water and bare ground after a winter like the one just ended has me gleeful.

emergent skunk cabbage

Photo by J. Harrington

In honor of the arrival of Spring, today I transplanted two shamrock plants from their plastic pots to a more respectable planter. We hope the effort proves successful. Gardening is not one of my strong points. I’m much more of a hunter/fisher/gatherer/forager. As I was removing the plants from their plastic pots, it appeared I’ve overwatered them and they haven’t been getting enough sunlight. The next week will give us an insight into whether the transplant will be accepted or rejected. Meanwhile, I’d like to find some potted crocuses (croci?) to brighten the place.

The pair of wild turkey hens that visit from time to time were back this morning. It would be great if they’d clean up the mess the squirrels and birds have made feeding on the whole, unshelled, sunflower seeds. As I was headed to visit the Granddaughter this morning, I almost ran over a wild turkey jake that decided to dash across the road about 75 yards in front of the Jeep. We tapped the brakes and swerved slightly left as the bird dashed frantically right and everyone went on their way unharmed.

The past few days have brought another sign of Spring’s arrival. Increased numbers of dead oak leaves are falling from the trees, their connections loosened as the buds for this years green leaves begin to swell. We know that Minnesota has experienced snow fall every month but one. I suspect the same may be true about oak leaves, they fall every month but one.

Skunk Cabbage

by Mary Oliver

And now as the iron rinds over
the ponds start dissolving,
you come, dreaming of ferns and flowers
and new leaves unfolding,
upon the brash
turnip-hearted skunk cabbage
slinging its bunches leaves up
through the chilling mud.
You kneel beside it. The smell
is lurid and flows out in the most
unabashed way, attracting
into itself a continual spattering
of protein. Appalling its rough
green caves, and the thought
of the thick root nested below, stubborn
and powerful as instinct!
But these are the woods you love,
where the secret name
of every death is life again - a miracle
wrought surely not of mere turning
but of dense and scalding reenactment. Not
tenderness, not longing, but daring and brawn
pull down the frozen waterfall, the past.
Ferns, leaves, flowers, the last subtle
refinements, elegant and easeful, wait
to rise and flourish.
What blazes the trail is not necessarily pretty. 

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