Now wind torments the field,
turning the white surface back
on itself, back and back on itself,
like an animal licking a wound.
Nothing but white--the air, the light;
only one brown milkweed pod
bobbing in the gully, smallest
brown boat on the immense tide.
A single green sprouting thing
would restore me. . . .
Then think of the tall delphinium,
swaying, or the bee when it comes
to the tongue of the burgundy lily.
February is flying fast. I cannot seem to get anything done. My house is a mess, my road is too narrow with wet, heavy snow. Work is a grind, not enough work in winter, too many bosses, too much TSA. All I want to do is knit and spin and hang out with my family.
I am longing to walk in a conservatory or some serious greenhouse. I need to smell things growing. I want to smell wet dirt. I am hoping Ohio will bring me a peek at the next season when I go next month. I am not dreaming tropical vacation, I am thinking of just seeing something sprouting. I am dreaming of not having to hunt around for a lost mitten, snow pants, warm socks.
On the up side, the chickadees have come back. All the chickadees (with the exception of one black capped chickadee) left us for about six weeks. The suet dough was languishing. Now we have about six black capped that visit us every day and about three boreal chickadees. Two of the black caps have deformed beaks. One has a long, curving top bill. The other has a beak like tweezers.