Springtime in Kentucky means the grass grows like a mofo. I have been known to quip "April is the cruelest month - for mowing." Because it is. The grass grows so fast you can hear it. And it rains regularly so you can't mow for a whole brace of days, by which time the grass is often too long to mow properly, so you wind up with all these lumps of dried dead grass lying all over the lawn, which should in fact be mowed once more to mulch them properly. But you can't, because it's raining again! (Sigh)
One of my favorite New Yorker cartoons shows a farmer sitting on a tractor in a field of high grass. He is talking on his cell phone, and the caption reads "Right now I'm dealing with all this spring bullshit." I am not including the image here, because of copyright reasons, but you can see it over on the Conde Nast store website if you wish. It pretty much sums up what it's like here in spring, yepper.
One way I know it's spring is that the neighbors livestock somehow always winds up in my yard. Whether it's cows from the pasture to the east, or horses from across the road, for some reason, the grass here on our farm must be more delicious, because this time of year I am regularly chasing some damned critter back home. Or leading it. More than once, usually.
But that's ok, it's a small price to pay for the best time of the year. Spring here in Kentucky is glorious. Cool breezes, warm sun, what my mom used to call "Portuguese weather." Spring is often when I am reminded of mom the most, as flowers start blooming again, and mom loved her flowers so. The other day just the sight of some of my daffodils brought me to tears, missing her.
But spring is also the time of new births and rebirth, and with each chick that hatches I am reminded that life goes on, and renewal is a part of the whole wheel of life, just as death is. And nothing is cuter than a newly hatched chick finding its legs and pecking for food, except perhaps the bunnies in the back leaping for joy as they run around at Silflay. I miss seeing goat kids gambol, but the neighbors newly born cows do the same thing, so it's almost as good.
I don't include poems often in my blog (my friend Katie is the poet, I just meander) but this is one of my favorites, both the author and the subject:
She wore her yellow sun-bonnet,
She wore her greenest gown;
She turned to the south wind and curtsied up and down.
She turned to the sunlight and shook her yellow head,
And whispered to her neighbor:
“Winter is dead”