Au revoir Winter!

Day by day, the bare ground line creeps northward. No Yak Trak’s for the driveway today. The dog and I enjoyed today’s moon (full at 2:17 am) without slipping and sliding. According to our Minnesota Weatherguide Calendar, the Ojibwe name for the March full moon is Snow Crust moon, while the Lakota call it the moon of Snow Blindness. Those are generally consistent with names listed in the Native American Moons page of the Western Washington University web site, but the American Indian Alaskan Native Tourism Association’s web site lists a variety of names other than those in the Weatherguide. As noted in the introduction to the AIANTA listing, “The concept of months only occurred post-colonization and most of these tribal translations pre-date colonization and generally reflect the seasonality of lunar phases. Moon phases, in fact, were used as measurements of time.” 

name the last full moon of winter

Photo by J. Harrington

Whatever it’s called, today’s full moon is the last one of winter this year, since December’s full moon will occur on the 7th, while it’s still autumn [winter solstice will be December 21], and Monday, March 20th is the Vernal Equinox, the beginning of astronomical spring.

Sunsets have been phenomenal some of the past few evenings but I still haven’t learned how to reliably capture the astounding red/pink colors with a camera. Local whitetail deer have become more noticeable during the past week. One doe visited the pear tree a couple of days ago. The Better Half and I noticed five whitetails at the far edge of a farm field yesterday midafternoon as we drove some township gravel roads. Robins have also been sighted, but still no red-winged  blackbirds nor any tom turkeys in courtship display. So much to look forward to, including the first flowers on our forced quince stems!

Spring (Again) 

Michael Ryan

The birds were louder this morning,
raucous, oblivious, tweeting their teensy bird-brains out.
It scared me, until I remembered it’s Spring.
How do they know it? A stupid question.
Thank you, birdies. I had forgotten how promise feels.

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

’Tis The Day of Himself

☘ ☘ ☘ ☘ ☘ ☘ ☘ ☘ ☘ ☘

May love and laughter light your days,

and warm your heart and home.

May good and faithful friends be yours,

wherever you may roam.

May peace and plenty bless your world

with joy that long endures.

May all life's passing seasons

bring the best to you and yours!

In my younger days I marched in several St.Patrick’s Day parades, some in spitting snow, others in shining sun. Boston, and the south shore of Massachusetts, have always been “home.” Slowly, over many years, Minnesota has become a home away from home.

Today the roadside ditches, or about half of them, are running full of snowmelt. Many farm fields have large ephemeral ponds or wet spots, none of which this afternoon had attracted waterfowl. In the North Country, mid-March is a bit early to expect to see fresh green anywhere outside, but this year’s rapid thaw should have us looking at mostly bare ground over the weekend. That, along with love and laughter, will warm our heart and home.

Digging

By Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumb   

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound   

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:   

My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds   

Bends low, comes up twenty years away   

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills   

Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft   

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.   

Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and down

For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I’ll dig with it.

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