A Deep River Year - 2017

On a crisp morning in November I picked the last cherry tomato hiding anbg the sprawling vines spilling over our garden fence. That tomato was almost as sweet as the first one I popped into my mouth on a warm summer's day, and perhaps it seemed even better because it had lasted so late into fall.


I am thinking tomatoes again today, as we hunker down inside our 19th Century New England parsonage while a snowstorm blows outside. It is mid-March, when Spring should be making an appearance. And indeed it has, in fits and starts. Early crocus appeared, but are now covered with snow, and the delicate snowdrops are buried, waiting for their moment in the sun to return. Last week we drove down to the marshy woods where we always hear the first songs of the Spring peepers, and sure enough, the little frogs were filling the night with their amorous chorus. No doubt today they are hiding back in the mud.


But this whopper of a late winter storm will not deter Spring forever. I headed down to the basement where I make an investment in life. I fill flats with potting soil and break open the wondrous paper envelopes with the seeds I ordered by mail a month ago. Today, in a blizzard, I pressed into the dirt the tiny seeds of Matt's Wild Cherry Tomatoes, covered and watered them, and placed them in a plastic bag on the top of the furnace. Now I wait.


Matt's Wild Cherries


In a basement laboratory
 life begins,
 a germ of hope
 in the dead of winter.
 This creature-to-be
 comes from sweet dreams
 and tiny seeds
 which will grow
 into a summer wonder,
 wild and red as blood.
 The thing will take time,
 as all true wishes do,
 by giving them to the earth,
 offering water, light,
 and love, too.
 We wait and wait
 for all our seeds
 to take root, and rise,
 and trust that some small gift
 will return to bless us
 on a cold November morning.