A Deep River Year

Every year we look forward to the January thaw. This is it. Today it is nearly 50 degrees, and this morning a few misguided birds were already starting to sing their Spring song. This is a mistake, though a delightful one. There are still ten days or so in this month, and February still lies ahead, and March, too. There is plenty of winter coming. But there is something healing about a thaw in this barren time. The earth is soft underfoot..., and I walk slowly through the colorless yard, and make a loop around the garden. Dead vines hang limply on the wire fence, and a shovel stands forlornly in the mud, where I left it in December as I tried to dislodge a few remaining turnips. But I don't see dead plants; I see green sprouts, golden sunflowers, fat tomatoes in there.

Already I am pawing through the seed catalogs, dreaming about summer. This is winter's best gift. This petulant time often leaves us with short tempers, weariness, and even despair. There are seasons like this in our lives, too, where the going is hard and the darkness lasts too long. We can use a thaw, just about then, where we can feel something soft under our feet, something like a bird song in our heart. The winter may endure, but there are seeds to order.


Winter Thaw


In the wreck of a garden
a shovel leans wearily,
long frozen in the mud
where turnips may still lie buried.
I will pull my spade from the mud
of this January thaw,
and feel in the dirt for some
tender, white root
that has endured the cold
of this aching season.
I have sneezed and coughed
my way to this gifted day,
and I am ready for whatever
these lean and bitter weeks may hold.
An old farmer said that winter
makes the turnips sweeter.
I hope that works for all of us,
too.