The time has come to get real with the earth again.  My folks are already there, turning up the earth as they consider what will be necessary in order to plant this year’s crops.  They wheelbarrow huge amounts of weeds to the discard pile.

K and I shamble over to our plot and take in the landscape of this year’s post-winter, spring revelation.  A hawk screeches and chases after a group of four birds.  Hawks like to hang out at the massive public plots we partake in.  Birds love the plentiful seeds and insects of our cooperative.  The cycle is happenin’, man!

We rid ourselves of a bunch of extra tomato cages that serve no use for our plans.  We’ve re-fenced our plot well from last year, so we hand over our extra fencing to another person who is re-doing their own.  We dig up past plants that have gone dead, and take out the detritus of past failures.  I saw apart branches from someone else’s garden making an invasion.

K discovers an honest to goodness salamander of red and black, which we leave alone to dig its way back into the garden.  Despite the countless seeds of pest plants, we do the easy work and let the garden know we are back.  Even if it looks like we are not in shape for this year.  Last year the garden beat us into a bloody pulp.

But there is a bonus.  The onions and garlic we thought had been defeated are growing strong.  And the rosemary, even though it has croaked, the leaves are there for us.  Dried and ready to be picked.  K grabs ’em all and puts them into a packet.  There will be a chicken potpie tonight with a rosemary pump-up for sure.

K spots a dandelion.  I see robins looking for worms.  Yes, spring is here, and the cycle has begun again.  I send blessings out to the living spirit, those who have been before me, the monsters, those who love me, and the losers.  As life stirs back into my consciousness, I realize how hard core it always is.

The worms are getting busy; the fire of life is waking up.  My friends are living their lives.  A psychic apparition of Grace Jones is whupping Batman’s behind with a garden hose as she shouts attention to all the people who give a darn.

I know nothing; I’m just plucking away at the dead magnolias to make room for this year’s crop.