Michigan remains. White pines, sand dunes, and the first thawing trill of returning red-winged blackbirds. Hardy yet shifting – this land is a migrant of season and harbinger of change. And there is always water.
A fresh snowfall to cover brave shoots of daffodil and crocus. This time of year always spurs an affection towards renewal. Please send sun!
The greenhouse fills and fills, and I am aware of every plant. Thousands of times a day, my fingers invest deeply into pillowy dirt, soft enough to blow away with a sneeze. Geranium, licorice, bacopa. Fuschia, petunia, vinca. This job of adding plants into the world is medicinal. In this work, forgiveness, beauty, and grace.
Soon, a new deck and restored fencing. Soon, manicured walking paths and mulch and fresh dirt. Soon, to scrape the remnants of a long hard winter into brown bags and compost corners and yard waste bins. Soon is hope. Soon is the lavender wreath on my gray front door. Soon is treating the wounds of winter with a salve found in the renewal of what is meant to be. This is how love remains . . . in the blackbird wings of almost here.