Front Porch Swing
Yesterday brought all possible weather. April came in like early March with gale force winds driving sheets of snow into the creaking trees on the mountain. The curtain like movement seemed a daytime version of Northern lights made of white flannel. Then, suddenly the air would clear, the sun would shine, and mist would rise up from the ground. Next it would rain, or hail. This pattern repeated over and over. The wind seemed the great sorcerer in all this. A wild weather spell was being cast. So today when I woke to quiet golden light, with birdsong fluttering into my senses, I had to go see. It is easy to throw back the quilts on such a morning. I went out to see what magick had been left… and found a rare and brilliant day.
I noticed down along the river yesterday in Ronceverte, the willows leafing out with their characteristic color. Every year I am again reminded of the first four lines of Frost’s” Nothing Gold Can Stay”.
“Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.”
This is that hour! I do not want to close my eyes for fear of missing even a single minute of it. Once dressed I went first to the chicken yard to let them out to forage. Thunder, the giant black Australorp rooster, led the way into the frosty field with his hens following along scratching here and there. Standing in the polished light, flapping and crowing, striking green and purple iridescence reflected in his feathers. Off to the barn, the horses stood slumbering in the warmth, heads down, a back hoof cocked. They roused easily, stretched, then walked over, knowing the joy of turnout onto new spring grass.
What next? I get to choose. Coffee in the front porch swing, for the first time this year, wins hands down. This becomes a ritual once the weather turns warm, usually before the morning chores call my name. Today I sit there at a bit later hour. My coat and boots keep me comfortable. All the cats and dogs find their places around. Even old Sage, grey tabby, sits with me. He hides out in the hay all winter, grumpy and acts a little crazed. This I understand. But once Spring breaks open, he comes out, seeking attention. This is a good sign. I notice for the first time the rosy blush on the cherry trees and maples along the fence line. Another good sign. The muck will thaw, the lilacs and apple trees will blossom, the horses will shed their buffalo robes and be slick and shiny again. This body will grow used to feeling looser and younger. I will go searching for wildflowers, and say all their names out loud. I will write poems in my head as I walk. I will find more questions than answers, and delight in them. There is no going back. The world expands and calls. The inner ruminations of winter are coming alive again on the front porch, in the woods and on the creek banks of Spring.
