Very ready for shearing!
It really isn’t that far off…….spring, the nursery opening, the gardens flourishing……the lawn needing mowing (O.k., that’s going too far….we’re still a ways off from that). Though we still have a pile of snow to watch disappear, everyday we see significant melting. Oh, this is promising! This week we start sowing seeds, checking over the list of plants that will be available in the nursery this season, putting together a list of the classes we’ll be offering. Several hypertufa
classes, for sure. A class on bee keeping. A native plant lecture. Just to name a few. We’ll be tapping the maple trees this weekend, we hear the sap is running fairly well at the moment. I must make a date for the sheep shearer to come, certainly before those ravens
get all of their wool! More lambs are expected, pigs and meat birds will arrive in another month. Amazing how quickly our days start filling up. The sunshine and the slow melting, the idea of bare ground and softened earth, needles us to get out and begin tidying our outdoor spaces. The barn, the chicken coop, the workshop, let’s get in there and make a difference! Just the same, an urge to organize all the winter clutter inside the house feels deeply necessary. A new coat of paint on the front room’s floor. Let’s surely wash all the windows! Who piled all this stuff in the mudroom? All of this makes me think of a poem written by one of my favorite poets, Kate Barnes. I’ll share it with you.
The House Asleep
By day my house says to me, “Clean me, clean me!”
The compost bucket growls, “Put on your boots,
get ready for the trek out through the snow.”
The rug cries for the vacuum cleaner, the floor
says, “Sweep me, and now please wash me, I want a pure soul.”
But at night, once I have turned out all the lights,
I can’t go to sleep, I have to wander around,
like a ghost, through the warm rooms of my sleeping house.
I put a stick of birch in on the ashes
and something begins to whisper in the stove,
but I can’t quite hear the words.
The traveling moon,
almost full, looks down from above the roof
to the white hills, she walks silently
over the corn fields. The house is filled
with her milky blue fire, three times reflected,
through which I wander in my white nightgown
brushing past the rose geranium leaves.
Suddenly the guitar hanging on the wall
speaks by itself. One string gives a loud twang,
and then it is all silence again, and light,
the smell of the leaves, the wordless dreams of the house.
Well, off to do some tidying up…inside or out, it needs to be done. I’ll leave you with a photo of one of this years lambs…..exploring her outdoor world and finding a spring in her step!