Cloudy days, yes; rain? no!

The Vernal Equinox is a week away. I keep struggling with the realization that repeated, extended, spells of well above normal temperatures don’t mean it’s actually Spring. I’m not sure how the local flora and fauna are responding, but I’m beginning to see signs of greening in our naturalized front lawn, under the layer of leaves from last autumn. It’s time to re-up my research on leaf management timing and techniques that support pollinators. Life was simpler before the research behind “no mow May” became questioned and controversial.

It is a treat to wander outside without having to put on a coat. Days of sunshine help too. And I don’t forget to be very grateful we don’t live in the vicinity of Ukraine, Palestine, Hungary, or Mar-A-Lardo. (No, that was not a typo.) In fact, as I look at news coverage, I wonder about the sense of entitlement many of US exhibit expressed through the expense and efforts that go into creating a “perfect lawn” which is close to being a biologically sterile monoculture.

most Springs the “wet spot” looks like this

Photo by J. Harrington

The drought and fire hazard continue, with slightly less than half the state abnormally dry and almost all the rest experiencing moderate or severe drought. There’s no precipitation in our ten day forecast as of this writing, unless you want to count the prospect of .02 inches of snow flurries on the 22nd. I won’t be surprised if that disappears from the forecast by the 21st. There’s absolutely no sign of moisture in the “wet spot” behind the house that’s usually holding water come Spring. Maybe St. Patrick can help with spring greening come Sunday.

Fallen Leaves

Mary Cornelia Hartshorne

^{An Indian Grandmother’s Parable}

Many times in my life I have heard the white sages, 
Who are learned in the knowledge and lore of past ages, 
Speak of my people with pity, say, “Gone is their hour 
Of dominion. By the strong wind of progress their power, 
Like a rose past its brief time of blooming, lies shattered; 
Like the leaves of the oak tree its people are scattered.” 
This is the eighty-first autumn since I can remember. 
Again fall the leaves, born in April and dead by December; 
Riding the whimsied breeze, zigzagging and whirling, 
Coming to earth at last and slowly upcurling, 
Withered and sapless and brown, into discarded fragments, 
Of what once was life; dry, chattering parchments 
That crackle and rustle like old women’s laughter 
When the merciless wind with swift feet coming after 
Will drive them before him with unsparing lashes 
’Til they are crumbled and crushed into forgotten ashes; 
Crumbled and crushed, and piled deep in the gulches and hollows, 
Soft bed for the yet softer snow that in winter fast follows 
But when in the spring the light falling 
Patter of raindrops persuading, insistently calling, 
Wakens to life again forces that long months have slumbered, 
There will come whispering movement, and green things unnumbered 
Will pierce through the mould with their yellow-green, sun-searching fingers, 
Fingers—or spear-tips, grown tall, will bud at another year’s breaking, 
One day when the brooks, manumitted by sunshine, are making 
Music like gold in the spring of some far generation.  
And up from the long-withered leaves, from the musty stagnation, 
Life will climb high to the furthermost leaflets. 
The bursting of catkins asunder with greed for the sunlight; the thirsting 
Of twisted brown roots for earth-water; the gradual unfolding 
Of brilliance and strength in the future, earth’s bosom is holding 
Today in those scurrying leaves, soon to be crumpled and broken. 
Let those who have ears hear my word and be still. I have spoken. 

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