Everyday I walk down the driveway and up the road or, I follow the path that Will blew out with the snow blower to the sugar bush, looking for signs of spring. I hear the new birdsong of the chickadees asking for their feeders to be filled; I’ve seen plumped up robins from trying to keep warm and not from a belly full of worms. The maples are tapped, but there is no tip tip tap of the sap. Normally by now we’re tired of gathering and boiling. Normally by Easter we’re picking pussy willows and listening to frog songs. There is no normal no more.
Inside the greenhouse, there are signs of hope, dreams of greens. The kale, mesclun & beet tops are poking through. The transplanted spinach is doing fine. Please little plants, be ready for Mother’s Day, the first market of the season. It’s only six weeks away. Patience my dear, patience.