a meditation on spring

a meditation on spring

The Universe has conspired to reveal signs of spring–even to me–she who remains indoors, in spite of herself–a boycott to unseasonable weather.

For days now, I’ve watched, as the single green seat cushion–the one that we bought on clearance, and placed outside–prematurely–atop one of the four metal seats–that came with the round patio table–that we brought home from the Marlboro Community Sale–on free day–takes a tour around my yard, compliments of a wintry wind.

At first it blew to the South, near the Birch that I loved when we first cleared this land for our home, but which over the years has become a stump of itself. I worried that we’d lose our single cushion, but I didn’t go outside to retrieve it.

The next day, I noticed that it had blown into the West, just past the raised beds.
The first, second, third, fourth, fifth sixth…
Every year we added another.
We stopped at 7.

The cushion was closer now, so I could easily grab it, without too much exposure, but I left it there, in the cold, while I remained warm inside.

I’m not sure what the cushion did during the nights, whether it headed North, or over the house, but the next morning, I looked out from my bedroom to spy it near the outdoor shower, in the East, at the edge of the woods.

I left it there, until I came home that afternoon from work, and saw that it had moved closer, beside something of… color.

COLOR?
COLOR!

I dashed from my car, past the woodshed, past the tool shed, over the place where the remnants of the last snow pile left its debris, and up the stone path to the wannabee garden of perennials competing with weeds where we dug in a handful of bulbs despite our historical need for immediate gratification.

There beside the fair cushion was the COLOR PURPLE!
The first color of spring!

I ran inside for the camera, and took a tour around the land–to each of the places where the cushion led,
and then brought it inside,
for safekeeping.

Sighs of spring…

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Where I belong

Where I belong

img_2220The Co-op is quiet this morning; the town itself demure–wet and waiting–for spring.

The ice spitting from the sky before dawn was the first sign that the winter was willing to surrender, something, before April.

I step through the tiny glistening shards as I cross the parking lot, thinking the day dark and heavy, just as the first flock of geese flies overhead, announcing its return.

The regulars are waiting. Mostly men. Mostly older men. Like an Italian piazza. They talk politics, instead of bocce ball, because this is Brattleboro. One has a wild, silvery beard and could be in Russia, playing chess. Talking treason. Instead he is running for office. Asking for signatures. Interrupting his companions’ reading of the cafe copies of the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal.

There are 8 men now, some a bit younger, one on a computer with headphones, smiling. A single, middle-aged woman unpacks her morning pills, her breakfast, her book.

“It’s like we are home,” says the cafe attendant, as I step up to the sink to wash my dishes. “We all know each other. It’s the way it should be.”

I don’t know any of them, really, but I know their faces, and their smiles, and their bad days. I join them in their morning ritual, a few times a month, when I’m needing an escape from working on the hill, where I live, encrusted in snow.

The mountain across the river is our steady companion, in every season. The Co-op itself sits beside a brook that runs into that river. The black, grated iron along its banks defines and holds the space we occupy: captures our silent gaze, keeps us safe, serves as a leaning place for children tossing pebbles.

As we crest 9:00 am, the cafe empties and fills, new faces, a few women; and the traffic across the bridge and up the main thoroughfare picks up to a hum to fill in everything in between.

A father and son cross the street at the light, beside the tall amber grasses at the corner, which some kind souls planted to remind us that there are other colors coming even when the world has been monochrome for so long.

It is this time each year, March, when I seriously consider moving; but this morning I’m right where I belong.

March Mythology

March Mythology

The bright spring sun has melted all

but the edges

of snow

outlining the yard

where last summer’s grasses

step toe-to-toe

with the dark woods

in a tango

of seasons


The snow there is just a sliver

of moon

on a bed

of hay-


And my eyes

so accustomed to all things

“white”

Turn the trunks of neighboring

birches

into funnels

for Winter’s exit

Stage Left

Earth

to

Sky



3/31/09  marlboro, vt
The Season of Mud

The Season of Mud

Mud season

rises up

beneath us…

As the snows melt

and the roads soften

Driving begins to feel

–and sound–

more like surfing…

And walking

is even more

a delight!

Once solid,

the Earth

now moves

like a water bed

under my boot.

I count

61 trees down

between our land

and Neringa Pond

Chewed stumps,

the work

of resident

Beavers.

Neighbors

marvel

at the Birch

nearly two-feet round

bearing teeth marks–

Some overly confident

teenage beaver

no doubt,

whose bravado

blinds him to the distance

between this tree

and his den.

Soon

it will dive into the road

creating yet another

perspective

for our travels

in

this,

the season

of

mud.

K. Salasin, 2010