Now is the month of Maying

Spring is now in full swing. Kestrals and kingbirds swoop and soar above the meadow. The woods are awash in wildflowers, and the grass in my yard is full of violets and dandelions. The apple trees outside my window host furtive warblers and flashing orioles. The blooms of bloodroot have already come and gone, to be replaced by trillium and columbine and wild geraniums as the season advances. Marsh marigolds quiver like yolks in the swampland, and in deep secret places the tips of yellow lady-slippers have emerged from the fens and will grace the next few weeks in golden glory.I watch the maples bloom and the pines and cedars streaming clouds of pollen. I remember that even a brief walk in the grass is an invitation to ticks. I see amphibian egg masses in forest pools releasing tadpoles, and chimney swifts above the rooftops in the evening light. The heat is off and the windows open, even though nights are chill and skies are gray. Each day is the advent of new delights in the natural world and in my own gardens. I always have to restrain myself from prematurely planting my tender annuals until the risk of frost is past. The earth looks so receptive and my desire is so strong, but except for peas and spinach my garden remains unsown. There will be time, and soon, for my hot weather plants to find their places in the soil, but not just yet.So I imagine spading the earth, working in compost provided from a neighbor’s dairy herd. I think about the seeds my children and I will press into the soil, laying out hopeful rows for bright, growing things. I think about where to transplant tomatoes in hope that the late blight doesn’t return, and dream of salsa and gazpacho and heavy fruit on the vine. Anything is possible before you begin. That is all still weeks away, of course. We can get killing frosts in late May. But the propagative urge is strong in spring, and it overrides the hard fact that harvests fail. If I were a Morris dancer, I would strap on my bells and clack sticks to herald the month of May. If I had a few more voices for harmony I would sing and chant madrigals. My heart skips and my soul chimes at the greening of the world. Tim Abbott is program director of Housatonic Valley Association’s Litchfield Hills Greenprint. His blog is at greensleeves.typepad.com.