The Time Between

This morning, the outside thermometer read 12 degrees.

But it was a balmy 61 degrees in the greenhouse, with these little shoots of hope looking happy and healthy in the morning sun. Reminders that these fields will be brimming with life. Soon. Sometime soon.

Fitting then that when I came back into the house, The Writer's Almanac on NPR was on and Garrison Keillor was reading "Here in the Time Between" by Jack Ridl.

Here's a snippet:

Here in the time between snow
and the bud of the rhododendron,
we watch the robins, look into

the gray, and narrow our view
to the patches of wild grasses
coming green. The pile of ashes

in the fireplace, haphazard sticks
on the paths and gardens, leaves
tangled in the ivy and periwinkle

lie in wait against our will. This
drawing near of renewal, of stems
and blossoms, the hesitant return

of the anarchy of mud and seed
says not yet to the blood's crawl...





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