It was warm today. I know you don’t believe me because it’s March, and I live in Michigan. But it’s true. The temperature got past 40 degrees, which meant that inside our crummy little aluminum-framed greenhouse it was warm enough to plant stuff.
When we go to market in May we like to have fresh greens available. That means we need to plant things like spinach, arugula, and Swiss chard in the ground inside our greenhouse as soon as we get a warm day. Today was that day. Gene filled the water barrel with warm water from the barn while I sowed blocks of yummy greens and short rows of purple plum and French breakfast radishes. Then I dipped the old galvanized watering can into the water barrel to fill it, and watered the seeds in. I can hardly wait for them to germinate and pop through the soil. As oppressive as every Winter feels, every Spring feels miraculous to me.
Dry dark grips hours
summer days will steal.
Soil like snarled concrete
beneath my boots, frost heaved
the earth awaits the sun
awaits its resurrection
in my glass house, sweating streams
streak clouded panes like tears.
I prepare the altar, worship
my own faith in futures.
Mellow soil dots my fingers.
I make wombs for germs of miracles.
Someday we will have a big beautiful heated greenhouse like this one. Of course, we will build ours ourselves, not buy it.
In the meantime, I’m thankful to be planting in any greenhouse at all, and happy to be thinking ahead to when it will be green outside again instead of grey and white.