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Tendrils climbing to the sky.
Peas and dirt and worms, my word,
Winter's gone and Spring's occurred.
Little worm digs deep to hide,
Last year's straw mixed deep inside.
Little worm churns dirt and rubble,
Making soil from all that stubble.
Broken soil now wet and cold,
Clods and clay and loam and mold.
Broken soil to hold the seed,
Grow the crop or grow the weed.
Soon the peas come bursting out,
Growing, stretching, flowers sprout.
Soon more peas will fill the pods,
Sun-kissed by the garden's Gods.
Continuing my pattern of the past few years, I waited until well after the traditional St. Patrick's Day target to plant spring crops. For Midwest gardeners of this latitude, the 17th of March is the day that our fathers told us to plant, but the delayed Springs of late have me reaching deep down within for patience before I put hoe to ground and plant my own. This past weekend however, the rare conditions of afternoon warmth and personal energy and spare time all collided in a whirlwind Saturday of planting and pruning and cleaning. There will be other days like that to come, of course, but my vegetable garden is now squared away for the season; new strawberries started, peas and potatoes properly planted, and empty trellises placed to await tomato vines.
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St. Patrick's Day came and went in our neck of the woods, too, with nothing planted. Not that I plant these things, but my sister does and I keep track of her garden calendar. We are at least two weeks late here, maybe three ... Forsythia is just now opening up, and won't be in full bloom for another few days. This delay in spring's true arrival feels as if I have been granted some extra time to prepare the garden.
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