Spring forward

All winter I dream of springtime.

It might be because my birthday is in March. There has to be some innate, subconscious connection between celebration and the pale green flush on every branch of every tree. Maybe that's why the Spring Equinox, Easter and Passover are all celebrated then, too. Oh, and May Day, the ultimate in flower power celebrations.

My flora fantasies are generally more mundane. I'm not the type to strip bare, make a garland of wildflowers and frolic in the fields of tall grass. I prefer to dig in the dirt.

Yup, all winter I think about my garden soil. I spy and occasionally pick up bags of leaves from other people's curbs. I wonder if I dug deep enough when turning the bed, knowing full well I couldn't get past the giant roots in my way or the thick clay a shovel-blade length down.

I wonder if my good hoe is sharp enough, and where I can get a pick axe, and if I can have a new handle put on that one shovel I broke last spring. I think about which seeds I will plant, whether I will put them straight into the ground or if I'll attempt to sprout seedlings.

Will it be a wet or dry growing season? Will the stink bugs and leaf-footed bugs kill the squashes and cucumbers again? Will I have blossom end rot on the tomatoes? Will the loofah bloom and fruit before first frost? Will the the opossum in the yard hiss at me again?

When I think of my garden now, I think of freshly turned soil, and the next day, when the dew shines on a myriad of horizontal spider webs, a feast of dirt bugs unearthed for the taking. I think of the never-ending parsley patch, green even in the dead of winter, hanging on for dear life in the underbrush of old stalks and stems, each with dozens of seeds falling with the strongest winds.

When I think of spring, I think of the herbs that will flourish first, of the daffodils and crocuses and irises I long to see all winter. I think of the color and the flavor, the heat and humidity, the sheen of pollen on every single surface. I think of the carpenter bees followed by the yellow jackets and mud daubers and wasps and honey and bumble bees.

I think of the ants that inevitably find the honey I put in my morning tea, and the lightning bugs that make their homes everywhere. I think of early morning walks and rising with the sun.

Springtime, you cannot come soon enough.