April is coming to a close. This spring seems warmer than the last two. I stop at Farmington gardens and people are lining up to buy their trees and other plants. We get so excited by a few warm days.
The grass grows madly, voraciously, intensely, unhindered, exuberant. My poor little electric mower gags and chokes. I feel like a torturer to push it through the damp fields.
Tonight I dug out compost. This is always a small miracle, the way the vegetable matter of a year can turn itself to dirt, heavy with worms working their magic, happy worms. I try not to cut them with my shovel. I greet them like little friends, take them out to my larger garden and watch them disappear into the soil of my desires. Where ever they go, I am as happy as they are to have it be spring, warm enough to wiggle around, think about colors and birds, witness the blueberry bushes and fruit trees covered in blossoms.
There is dirt under my finger nails. I have planted my first starts of cabbage and tomatoes. It does not seem possible that the earth should be so good to us. Fickle friends as we are. The earth, an ever forgiving mother, an unceasingly tolerant friend.
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