Grass

We had a storm three weeks ago, and the branches were heavy with wet snow.  Now all the snow is melted.  The days are glorious.  But all is still brown outside.

 

The word that comes to mind when I look at my backyard: sere.  Meaning withered and dry.

So I decided to do a little planting. These promise to be yellow tulips.

The thing I miss the most during our long winters is green.  Green anything.  Mostly green grass. 

 

 This grass is grown from wheat berries. We should be throwing it in our smoothies. But I just "mow" it with scissors every few days.  I love the smell of freshly mown grass, especially in my kitchen, with no annoying mower noise.

 What could be better than a card catalog AND fresh grass?  Not much.

 It's all good: sun-dappled furniture, books, shells, and grass.  

And (of course) a little poem.

Spring

By Christina Rossetti

Frost-locked all the winter,

Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,

What shall make their sap ascend

That they may put forth shoots?

Tips of tender green,

Leaf, or blade, or sheath;

Telling of the hidden life

That breaks forth underneath,

Life nursed in its grave by Death.

Blows the thaw-wind pleasantly,

Drips the soaking rain,

By fits looks down the waking sun;

Young grass springs on the plain;

Young leaves clothe early hedgerow trees;

Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,

Swoln with sap put forth their shoots;

Curled-headed ferns sprout in the lane;

Birds sing and pair again.

There is no time like Spring,

When life's alive in everything,

Before new nestlings sing,

Before cleft swallows speed their journey back

Along the trackless track --

God guides their wing,

He spreads their table that they nothing lack, --

Before a daisy grows a common flower,

Before the sun has power

To scorch the world up in his noontide hour.

There is no time like Spring,

Like Spring that passes by;

There is no life like Spring-life born to die, --

Piercing the sod,

Clothing the uncouth clod,

Hatched in the nest,

Fledged on the windy bough,

Strong on the wing:

There is no time like Spring that passes by,

Now newly born, and now

Hastening to die.

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