Rumors of Spring

The farms in the area are starting to get in gear. I drove the backroads a couple of days ago, the air heavy with the smells of fresh-turned earth, manure, and fertilizer. Today was the second-warmest sunny day so far this spring. I brought out the garden hose, swept out the garage, and planted another rose bush. Tomorrow will be for planting lavender and wildflowers in the beds on the sides of the house, then waiting till they emerge.



Rows tilled and plowed in the black earth. Ridges of earth. Nothing yet emerged. Soon the corn and soy and wheat and other crops will green the fields. Earth still wet from heavy spring storms.



Clouds till the sky, making rows that dissolve, reform, and fly on. Now heavy with more rain, now light and airy, nothing to touch but evaporating mists.



Sky turns in on itself, becoming memory and expectation. We wait and watch, desire for gentle winds rooting us by the budding trees.





Pretend it's all ceiling. All you have to do is reach up to dip into it, long fingers trailing wakes in a fast stream. The willow have turned golden raking the sunset from their hair.



And then come the days of wheat and sorrow. Feathers blow from wind-socks in the long-grass scarecrows. Soon, another storm will rise, and fall again.



It's time for more plantings. I'll air out the house, once the days turn predictably clear and warm. One day soon, roses shall bloom and perfume the evening's peace. Meanwhile we still huddle under the eaves, tend the fires of waiting, and harp our melancholy songs into the dark.