No. 93
Up in a big way.
Good morning.
Last week’s bump of warmth spurred growth in the garden, and the mild, cooler days have coaxed the rhubarb and asparagus from their beds. The plum trees are on the verge of bouquet, and the apples aren’t far behind. It is always like this after the long duration of winter, the feeling that everything is happening all at once while in reality it has been steadily progressing. We partake in an almost performed forgetfulness of the inevitable.
On our way home a few days ago, we watched two bear cubs flop across a field. Out from the mud the peepers have dug themselves back into life. It is all gradual, but the moments of warm sun, the flocks of noisy off-key swans, and the green of the grass framed by the doorway on an early May morning make it seem sudden.
The way we use our time and our bodies changes so much with the spring weather. Now we are outside for hours, walking from the garden to the barn, from the shed to the field, the greenhouse to the garden. The sun kisses us. The soil touches our skin. We can smell what we have been doing on each other. There is so much to sense. Everything is awake.
POEM
Morning after the downpour and gust before the rose of dawn there is a duck egg blue. Have you seen one of those? The small perfect link between day and dew-wet night. I think how I want to feel real, to feel like I am really here. If I were, I would be this blue, this fleeting, this kin. Life, most of it, is the weather between storms. But sometimes it is the storms.
Some Things I Consumed This Past Fortnight
Electricity. I finally got around to wiring a subpanel in the barn. This kidding season has light!
I’ve meandered away from checking my Instagram account, only for that time to be replaced by lurking on reddit—in all ways an improvement. The obscure list of subreddits is unending. I currently spend my morning coffee time deciphering old cursive handwriting and chuckling at inside jokes between redditors.
Baby goat shouts and jumps. Kidding season has begun, and the bright, specific joy and energy of baby goats is upon us.
Rhubarb. It’s up in a big way.
These became a pie. Poetry. The St. Croix Falls art school started a monthly open mic. Listening to local singer-songwriters and poets has helped me find renewed commitment to my own creative endeavors.
A stack of records from Down In The Valley record shop on National Record Store Day, including an Ahmad Jamal album!
Cheers,
Jake