02/05/2013 by syrbal-labrys
The wind chimes all sound, some discordantly, as earlier wind storms stripped away parts that led to harmony. The furled umbrella on the porch table rotates as if to say “Come on, Don Quixote, I’ll be your windmill tonight.” The birds were all out of sight 30 minutes ago, because they know a storm is coming. Fat drops of rain pelt the back of my neck as I bend over a rat-trap on my roof. I smear it with chicken fat and set it; at night it is rodent highway up there of late.
The rain isn’t really cold, nor does it have the icy teeth of the January storms. It doesn’t yet carry the soft warm earth smell of April, but the Old Woman Winter is too busy packing her bags to really freeze us now. But we will have a warm spell now and the weeds will begin to bloom even while the earth is cold and the buried bumblebees still slumber. My days will be spent desperately trying to catch up with the winter-mangled yard.
The Labyrinth will need a lot of work, the moles have worked insidiously at undermining the stones. I wish I felt some enthusiasm for the task. But I am still feeling slowed like cold syrup and ice clogged streams. We have an entire garden to rebuild this spring; and more daunting than that? A green house to aid us all year round as our season shortens more each year.
We have a hotter, brighter spell in summer than usual, but it is cold enough that the earth feels icy clear into June. And the first frosts come in October, but September days are often so dreary and drippy that final fruits never ripen before rot sets in with the damp. So, if we intend to eat from our back yard, we must adapt and change.
I feel about as much enthusiasm for the whole idea as I do about the change to Daylight Bloody Savings Time coming next month. I will cut cherry, apple, and forsythia branches and embellish them with glass eggs, wee garden implements, and glass birds….awaiting the Vernal Equinox, if the branches bloom perhaps my spirit will lift? But whether it does or not, the geese cry to me; they want the weeds I will pull. And by month’s end, Alba will be laying huge snowy white eggs. It is springing on me, ready or not.