Muck Everlasting

in just-

in Just- spring

when the world is mud- luscious

the little

lame balloonman

whistles far and wee

and eddieandbill come running from marbles and

piracies and it's spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

,,,

ee cummings

If Robert Frost defines winter on the farm, ee cummings has captured spring, although luscious is not the first adjective that comes to mind when one's boot is swallowed by the muck and the next step lands a foot in a sock in ankle deep, 40 degree barn lot muck.

Tis the season of horsehair waffles from the currycomb all over the landscape, of wondering if the horses still HAVE feet, and of those mucky socks. This fine collection of pictures http://www.timflach.com/ was sent by a friend. Elegant and thought-provoking composition, and lovely images aside, the first thing that came to mind was "how on earth did anyone get those beasts so CLEAN!" There is a layer of horsehair on everything, and a strong wind will carry a cloud of swirling hair off into the stratosphere. Tis the season of itchy horses, of leaning through the fence to grab those tantalizing blades of greener-on-the-other-side, of coming home from work to see everyone sprawled flat on the hillside soaking up the sun ... and wondering just what fatal malady has befallen them all.

Once during this season I visited the post office, to have the postmistress say sympathetically "I'm so sorry about your spotted horse" (Ozzie the Appaloosa, the farm character). Since Oz had a gift for mischief I asked her "what did he do?". "He DIED," she replied, and went on to explain that she had seen his alarmingly prostrate form in the pasture when she passed by on a walk. She had whistled, called him, and even thrown a rock, provoking not a twitch. Oz was alive and well, but had just been too busy soaking up the sunshine and sleeping off three months' worth of winter to be bothered to respond.

This is also the season of realizing, as winter loosens its grip at last, what a gift the sunshine and the mud puddles are. The hayfield is emerald green, the alfalfa is shoe-top high, and everything is bursting into flower and song. The frogs are deafening at night, and the oven bird reminds me, calling "teacher, teacher, teacher", that I need to get to school in the morning instead of dawdling in the sunshine with the horses as I'm tempted to do.

This is Holy Saturday, when we wait one more anxious night for the dawning of the Light -- pure gift, pure love, pure glory. The stars millions of them -- are keeping vigil tonight, and tomorrow promises to be a radiant day. May His praises echo through these hills, and may His light so shine that we, like the awakening land, may bring forth flowers, sweet fragrance of prayer, and fruit to His glory.