Chapter
One: Snowdrop
It is so
cold, and the kind of wet that goes right through you. There had been many nights under the stars in
company of earth's other wilder things and the strangely lacking blanket of
snow that had brought protection more than once to the family. Not yet, the ice was unyielding.
But when the rain had done its gentle work a
few passings later, the softening, with its loosening work filling empty
reservoirs with life-giving trickles of water
had begun in earnest.
Old winter had broken down for us the gathered
refuse blankets and now the nutrients flowed with the showers.
As heralds,
we took heart from the milky sunlight, such as it was; it was enough for our kind to begin with, though not only we felt the
lengthening of passing. In the new
softness there was room to grow. Grow
we did. Once broken free, the race
began. The tournament was relentless
but position was vital. Those fortunate
few who caught more of the life-giver's attention were always first. Day by day, leaf by stem and depth of root
gave strength. More showers, more
breeze to rock the clods away. Our
little family were in a goodly corner of place, where no traffic or heavy
leafage could spoil our upward pursuit.
The little legged ones and crawlies began their work, the sun, wind and
rain theirs, and finally revelation.
Now to see and be seen. Green.
Greener. The white glory of our being not long afterward
opened to the sun.
It was a good time, we were many. It was a blessed time, many of the housed ones rejoiced in our
coming. The competitors had not yet
stolen eyes. The rejoicing of
visitation, the knowing ones seeing and hoping.
Many passings
of sun we would know this year.
Strength passed to weakness, the shifting way of things where our glory
moved on to others in turn. Now white turned green and others ruled the garden.
Chapter
two: Crocus
The
softening had come! The life-bearing
bulbs of life, so carefully placed throughout the park lawn, had felt the lengthening and tried to jump to
life, but timing was all important.
Once the softening had prepared our ground and
the trickles of warming showers had filled the lack and lightened the weight,
we knew it was time to begin. Then it
usually came quickly. With the showers
came little light this time and we got stuck halfway up. The
bulb remembered other such occasions. The stem was pleased but less the impatient flower.
Their spurts of thought were not as pleasant
to hear that year! 'Why can't I come
higher yet? Why do not the clouds
relent? Where did the life-giver go
again?' 'Is it time yet?' On and on it went, hasty in tone, worried of
missing the mark or a shortening of an already brief glory.
The first
really warmer day was greeted with our showing, part one. Being rather reserved, the sun had more
convincing to do before we could bask in our best. Then finally the next passings proved true
and we opened up to know all the admiration of the housed town.
They knew our yellow and white and violet and came to enjoy our glorious
rising. Complete at long last! Now the clouds could not harm us, their work
only served to lengthen our time. Cool
evenings and showers drew out further
rising still. Only some elder bulbs knew
the height was beyond our previous performances. Passings came and went. The
gardeners and the visitors turned their attention elsewhere. Only insignificant leaf could remain and
only incognito. The bulb remembered the
height and soon was lost to the rocking.
Chapter Three: The Softening 2
We come
with no bloom, we the makers of upward mobility. Our tools are the impatient nature of wind,
rain, snow, creeping roots and creatures of all sort. We are the committee of varying tasks, we
the drivers accomplishing one end. Without
our wind and rain, the tree bark would hold its shield still, hardened
against icy blasts, and too hard to give growth to stem and leaf. Without seed and insect, rain and wind, the
soils in all their peculiarity would not break loose from snow's grip to allow us in. But
rain in softest showers over days coaxes
the bitter earth to hear spring's
calling forth.
Finding
space at last, bulb and seed then crack
open as the soil had relented before
them and releases the life within.
Growth begins, heat is released, and then burrowing , plunging, groping--- plant life begins its search for light. Those other unseen paler forms, the workers
of unheralded force poke and root their way down, down…. while all else turns upward and outward. It is their hidden work, their holy agenda.
Light, our life-giving, heat-bearing hope just around the week's turn, awaited
all. Our noblest member, He often reminds the ancient ones of seasons past and restored
hope in spring's future. He bears only a
sheer shadow of himself, His glory not yet full. The duet of sun and shower revives them
all. Trees, their brittle bark split to free the bud and
join the mighty chorus, soil shifted to
permit the stem, each breeze, the gardeners labor, the critters' toil – all do
their share to make the softening's symphony ring out. The conductor at long last steps forward
for the Rites of Spring….
The other
softeners are pushed back from the song, but they preside with time, when time
does its work . The queue of plant and
animal life to be taken away, the mound of it unthinkable but demanding its
day. The millers of decay churning
onwards to bring nutrients and softness to the soil. Yes, they have their day, the worm and the
warmth, they serve us all in kind.
