author’s photo and garden
April in Minnesota
I see them everywhere, slicing
the soft earth, slipping their speared tips
skyward – stretching their spikes
of green and purple.
They emerge in regiments, in battalions,
fighting for space with other newly forming
species. The war is waged through rain
and sun, through day and night; with all
their might, they surge upward
tilling the soil with their appearance;
surfacing, and then unfurling
shining new leaves, as they rise.
And I want to throw my hands
upward and thank the sun – shout
out to the world, when I realize,
“The Hostas are coming!”
“The Hostas are coming!”
~ by Annette Gagliardi
published in the Saint Paul Almanac, 2022.
After fifty years on the same plot of land, breathing the air in this same spot, past the construction and growing pains, past the changes we have made to imprint ourselves on this space, this piece of land is home. The only one I’ve known in such a complete way since living in Lead, South Dakota.
This is the home we brought our babies to; the home we raised our family and continue to gather. It is called the celebration house – the gathering house because we gather so many folks, so often. (Actually, we are the ones calling home a celebration house.)
Being so close to the freeway brings the thrum of traffic. Living under the flight path brings the roar of airplanes. But those noises don’t drown out the happy chirping of the Cardinal, Wren, Sparrow, chickadees and House Finches. The woodpecker adds his own drum-beat.
The day is coming soon — here it is the first part of May, when I will carry my morning coffee to the back porch step and sit to sip it while I breathe in the fresh morning air of spring. I’ll see the newly green sprouts of flowers to come, smell the fragrance of the soil and newly hatched Hyacinth and Daffodils and feel the sun’s heat on my bare arms. When my coffee cup is emptied, I’ll stroll the grounds to survey ‘my land’. We call the garden along the alley the “Back Forty”, but of course it is just (maybe) 60 yards away. The fence is fruitful with Raspberries, Strawberries and Rhubarb growing. On a good year we get grapes as well. I note that the Rhubarb has grown a mate and see the bunnies scamper into the cover of raspberry canes.
The spring ephemerals (Trillium, Bluebells, Wild leek, Shooting Stars, Violets, etc.) — those plants that emerge & flower in early spring, before the trees have leaves, are up and blooming, proving that cold weather cannot stop growth.
The Robin and Oriole will share their song while Wren and Sparrow provide the chorus. My neighbor’s dog barks a greeting and when she and I glimpse each other, we wave and chat across the yard between us.
I itch to get my hands deep into the earth, to turn it over in my hands; to smell the weft and warp of mother nature in the prime of her seasons. That is what makes spring magic. It is the anticipation of a promised return: the planting of seeds that will sprout and grown nourishment for body and soul.
I love the spring garden with its weedless, neat rows gently watered; with evaporation rising along with the new growth. I work in one garden bed, then another as anxiety and stress fall away. Tilling, planting, thinking, planning is so renewing, so calming to my soul. Hand-in-hand with the soil, rain and sunshine, I create a little piece of heaven right here in my own back yard.
The breeze of spring fills my clothes, caresses my skin, my senses and provides a feeling of peace, anticipation and energy. I see new Hosta spears poking through the soil and note all the weeding I will eventually need to do. I breathe in spring; fill up my lungs with the fragrance of renewal; carry the scent of new life back into the house with me.
Tell me, Dear Reader, what do you love about spring?