Spring is coming. Temperatures hover near zero, and the ice
whines on the reservoir, but days lengthen and footsteps thump like sap in a
bucket. Well after five, here in Vermont, the day lingers and fades to a pinky
gray. Six-thirty sees a pale glow. The evenings bite, but March doesn’t feel
that far off.
Here in Vermont.
We transplanted ourselves according to wisdom, in the hard
dormant freeze of winter. Our stores should have been full, all energy pulled
into our efficient, hearty cores.
Growing and fruiting require stability, resources, to support the
vulnerable blossoming. We left Western Massachusetts in a deep freeze, with two
feet of snow on the ground. We couldn’t see the grass we were leaving, and some
old planting pots stuck to their ground and refused to come with us. It made
sense – less ground to stir and muck up, a heartier surface for travel.
(It’s
a pity our lives can’t ebb and flow with the seasons – as I think in every
season.
The world around us cycles, in New England, but our energy
requirements
stay the same, with our schedules. The whole business of
dormancy
remains lively in its figurative sense, but I think waiting for winter
to
transplant oneself has more to do with the land).
It was kinder to our destination, too, to steal away in the
night of the year. As newcomers in winter, our boots and boxes don’t yet leave
an imprint. It’s a gentler approach, to this sleeping land. I suppose we can
spy a bit, too, before our surroundings notice. Stark and sere we can see all
the crooked limbs of trees, their bare forms. Even the leaf scars, the bundle
scars, the velvet naked buds of witch hazel. Bud before leaf.
Form, structure, then flesh. Maybe when the maples wake up, they’ll have
thought we’ve been here all along. They’ll yawn into fullness, and our own toes
can thaw with the ground, sneaking our subtle roots into icy mud.
At least, for now, we have our houseplants, who have only
dropped a couple of nervous leaves in the process. And we have the great Green
Mountains, as always, pink and grand and constant at first light, even in
winter.
