Frantic season
Frantic season again. Even if we had the strength of youth, even if all we did was work the land, we’d fail. Spring holds too much, imminent failure: Raspberry canes to thin, iris to separate, garden spaces to dig up, prune the apple trees, pot up the pepper seedlings, water the greenhouse lettuce, a trip to the dump, that faucet we need to replace— our reminders to each other like the drip of water falling in the sink daily.
Wait. Wait. Time out, early afternoon, tai chi under a cloudy sky, noticing a daffodil, a pansy, the snowdrops but moving on through the form. Up in the woods a turkey calls, I lose my place begin again try not to worry over the lilac tree’s suckers. Crows call to each other, like critics noting my ineptitude or celebrating those few seconds when mind-body flows through space and time disappears.
