Springtime

When the snow melts, the whole world is brown and bedraggled for weeks, until the things long-buried by winter have been cleared away, trees bud, and green shoots spring out of the earth. Sometimes the new season is overwhelming, I want to stay within, arranging my little house and ignoring the ugly yard. I want to skip over mud-season and start the spring with a summer garden, thick grass under my feet and a dry road. But then the warm new wind blows in and I can smell the growing things all around. I step out the door and hours later come back from cleaning the chicken coop, preparing the little garden, or simply walking out under the trees.

Each morning, Yarrow and I clean house. While the sunlight warms the outside air, we dust shelves, air out trunks of clothings, and sweep dust out from under Luba, whose fear of the broom keeps her darting around the yurt. If I’m lucky, Yarrow naps well and I have an hour to write, to sew, to steep herbs in vodka, or to sleep myself with music all around. In the afternoon, we walk down to the mail-box and do our outdoor chores: collecting wood for processing or for bonfires, raking down the damage melting ice did to our road, and clearing the yard of winter debris. The chickens peck around us and Yarrow watches them with reserved judgment, Luba gets in the way - eagerly trying to help. The wind picks up by late afternoon and we head indoors to start the stove, make dinner and dream of summer.