Sunshine is a gift.
Even with a sore back, I want to be outside today, moving around, face illuminated by the light, blinded by sparkle and white, taking compost to the chickens, pulling a sled, gathering frozen kale from a garden covered in snow.
Wallace isn’t so sure.
He drags behind, thick in his suit, collapsing onto the ground, pulling off his mittens.
I make my way down to the chicken coop.
Theo waits, curious about compost but leery of the electric fence, making dog-breath steam in the bright, icy air.
At bedtime, snuggled under the covers, Wallace wonders about fireflies.
“Do you remember how they light up, blinking, all over our front field?” I ask him.
“In the summer?
When it is warm and humid in the tall grass?”
But it’s hard to remember
Even in the fullness of these days,
especially in the fullness of these days,
I seek out my desk.
I seek out my desk and
I slip away to catch the light.
I turn around and find it, everywhere.
Even when the day is overcast,
the clouds are heavy,
my pants soaked from the long grasses,
my boots like puddles inside –
light like an abundant secret
“In some ways poetry is most akin to magic. Every poem is a sort of spell.”
– A New Treasury of Poetry, Compiled by Neil Philip
Holding a tiny fluffy life in your very own hands is a sort of poem too, don’t you think?
Oh, this morning. Breathtaking over the lake. The light. The way the clouds move. Misty blowing snow.
And look at her, taking him out early to let out the chickens, while I am still upstairs, just getting out of bed.
This is what the “lawn” looks like after six weeks away.
And the garden is a jungle. But at least there is kale growing in the jungle. And lots of garlic. Oh, and volunteer plants I would have weeded out weeks ago. How I love the volunteers. And so they get to stay. Nasturtiums in the garlic beds. Cosmos in the onions. Calendula everywhere. Hundreds of borage plants for the bees.
The garden is wild. The children have not brushed their hair in days. The puppy is happy.
The chickens are settling back in.
And sometimes Amabel and I spend the morning collecting beautiful bits of plants and arranging them just so, creating this lovely, yet rather pointless assortment . . . instead of weeding, but . . . it’s lovely here, in the jungle, isn’t it?