An Ode to Spring

What is it about a place, with its sights, smells, loves? It can bring out the best in a man or woman. I hadn't seen the lush languid flowing Lowcountry for quite some time, I realized, once I saw it last week. As bicycle passed over the Cosgrove bridge onto the Sam-Rittenburg peninsula, wild Anise perfumed the roadside, at the edge of the foolhardy sit-mower's recent path. Still offering its gift. A kind of treaty, gracefully perhaps, if only on account of nature's end. Grabbing handfuls of it, breathing deeply. . .

From April 2015

Feeling good on the farm. I need rest. I am so glad to have gotten hard work and good feelings. I can feel romance again. I am in love with nature. Today was a day of discovery on the farm. Pawing dense strawberry foliage spilling out of black plastic covering. Seeing "henbit," showing its flirtatious beauty with its wild fuschia blooms. Who knew such a plant existed! I marveled at swiss chard, tuscano kale, as well as countless soft tufts of wild greens that blanketed and healed the ground. Most call them weeds, but my co-worker pointed out "see that one is of the mint family, you can tell from the semi-circular leaves surrounding the stem. And that one is of the pea family." These are close cousins of the species that feed us directly. The drive there was unmistakably sunny. I had seen naught but full cloud cover for two weeks, so all this sunshine was ambrosial. My eyes sang and my heart rejoiced as I passed Charleston harbor -- the water was singing, sparkling again -- James Island, John's Island -- the trees luminesced once again. Fresh pines, wise old oaks, standing like apostles, meekly declaring God's humble magnificence -- all was graciously offered to my sight. In the air was the return of spring and I thought back to my time on the farm in October, picking squash and sometimes just stopping, looking up at the trees in the morning sun, all living matter glistening, every particle, air and ground, glowing, and [a man] thinking softly, "wow, this is something else. I get to be in the pulsating heart of nature every day. Truly, I must be blessed, to feel all of this"

. . . Later, I walk the soccer fields of my youth. The heat of the earth leaks back to the air. The grass breathes moisture into the air. The fog is thick. Lights filter through the trees, heavily creating a sense of place. Place and moment is comfortably drawn about me. The air takes on a special kind of mass. The dance of shadow and light is enveloping, entrancing in my eyes.
Slowly, methodically, feet move from dew-soaked earth, up, cold grass slipping in-between toes, gathering their moisture. Savoring the quiet coolness. Bathed from the thighs down in condensed heaven.