The date makes it clear that spring is well underway in the Northeast.
This year, the calendar and climate correlate.
Snow has melted, though there is some in the forecast;
The ground has thawed; green shoots of garlic are beginning to peek through their thick straw overcoats.
Daffodils dance in the breeze; crocuses and violets soon will blanket the earth in a deep purple haze.
In the farm fields, however, the past stands tall --
withered, browned but resolute, roots clinging deeply to earth,
holding hard-earned inches of topsoil carefully in place.
The stalks of last year's harvest evoke joy, sadness, twinges of guilt.
Moments of savoring sweetness,
moments of rancid rage,
moments of soured reconciliation, of bitter tumult.
The stalks of the past will soon be hand turned under;
in soil, they will decompose and in so doing nourish new growth.
What they represented will no longer be relevant,
unless we choose to remember.
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