(Early spring: a time of high drama and higher hopes, if your idea of gripping plot tension is…watching plants grow.)
I.
Where the windows, topways-hinged,
Crack down against dawn –
Crack down slantwise, yet opening still
Towards dew and birdlike chatter.
White sheets make displays between.
To see and be seen, for them –
And cold frames curve to see:
Will the pageant start on time?
Every year, they ask.
The curtains stir.
II.
Just – at the critical moment,
Deep-leaved rustling sounds come
From winter’s hatbox seat:
If not for the veil, all could see
Therein.
It may be the first few crickets, or
It may be the fresh-fledged spring
On mould to chew, with unscratched wings
These first-note weeks.
This is the real performance, this is what we came
To see.
Glamour will also come soon enough, it’s true –
The papers say
From the potting shed.
III.
For now,
If garden work is where
You’re pitchfork-bound –
Do not be a critic.
Wear soft your gloves,
And don’t yet rush
Towards fame
This opening-act crib.
My morning commute takes me past a small urban farm. Early spring (yes, I know it’s February…in Texas) makes for one of the most delicate and mysterious times of year; the cold frame curtains have just been drawn back, the cold crops know they have a few more weeks before the heat spikes, and between the herbal/sulfurous aroma of mixed brassica and Thai basil and the ululations of chickens and geese, I can hear the rustling of tiny (and not-so-tiny) arthropods navigating the still-layered mulch. Nothing is as loud as a cricket that’s not yet chirping…until, in March, the mosquitos return.
Related: Early March Mornings
Skeleton At The Feast 