Spring is sprung

The week just ended our area "greened up." Grass that had been brown grew and greened. American goldfinch males are now mostly chrome yellow. Decorative bushes in urban yards are in pale pink flower. Thunderstorms, some of which may be severe, are forecast for tomorrow.

late April greening up

Photo by J. Harrington

Thursday this week coming is May Day. It's also "Beltane (Beltaine, Belltaine, Bealtaine, Beltain, Beltine, Bealteine, Bealtuinn, Boaldyn), meaning ‘bright fire’ or ‘lucky fire’ is held on May 1st (May 15th in Scotland) and celebrates the start of summer, the crop and pasturing season." Some local farmers have been working their fields already.

Yesterday, Independent Bookstore Day, the Better Half and I headed for our local Indie, Scout & Morgan, to pick up my recently arrived copy of Phenology by Theresa Crimmins. Earlier, I had enjoyed reading the beginning of Bookstores are arsenals of democracy. If we don't lose power tomorrow, I'll finish the essay while watching the rain. The theme is sadly fitting for current events and a reminder that we've been "here," or near here, several times before. With any luck, Kash won't last nearly as long as J. Edgar!

Instructions on Not Giving Up

Ada Limón 1976 –

 

More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out

of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s

almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving

their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate

sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees

that really gets to me. When all the shock of white

and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave

the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,

the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin

growing over whatever winter did to us, a return

to the strange idea of continuous living despite

the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,

I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf

unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.

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

Life returns in Spring

On this Easter Sunday, I take a measure of hope from the blossoms on the forsythia bush behind the house, from the songs of the birds, the flights of the returned waterfowl and the fact that more precipitation is rain instead of snow these days. Despite our continuing destructive activities, we are alive on a living planet and are again celebrating the season of life returning in the northern hemisphere. I wish more of US carried that awareness close to our hearts.

much anticipated marsh marigolds in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

The driveway east of the house gets a mix of sun and shade in the mornings. An ell between the garage and the living room faces south and west and gets sun from late morning all afternoon. The day lilies along the driveway are less than three inches tall. Those in the ell are more than a foot tall. I think that's a good example of differences in microclimates. It also indicates spring's variability, since, in 2012, the day lilies in the semi-shaded front yard were a foot tall on March 24, a month earlier than this year.

The weather forecast includes April showers for the next several days. The water level in the "wet spot" behind the house is much lower this year than most. We're not listed as being even in an abnormally dry county despite an almost snowless winter, probably because precipitation for the past couple of months has been close to normal. We'll hold off until things green up lots more before we torch the brush pile in the back yard.

As far as I'm concerned, we have the best parts of the year ahead of us and I intend to spend at least part of my time paying attention to and enjoying the natural rhythms and beauties in our area. I refuse to spend all my time resisting the madness emanating from the state and national capitols. I also am entitled to enjoy, et alii, marsh marigolds coming into bloom sometime over the next several weeks, weather permitting.

For the Bird Singing before Dawn

Kim Stafford

Some people presume to be hopeful
when there is no evidence for hope,
to be happy when there is no cause.
Let me say now, I’m with them.

In deep darkness on a cold twig
in a dangerous world, one first
little fluff lets out a peep, a warble,
a song—and in a little while, behold:

the first glimmer comes, then a glow
filters through the misty trees,
then the bold sun rises, then
everyone starts bustling about.

And that first crazy optimist, can we
forgive her for thinking, dawn by dawn,
“Hey, I made that happen!
And oh, life is so fine.”

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