Clear the trampled decks, cast off the cruel yokes of winter, uproot the unwieldy remnants of the season past, take the brown and blackened beds firmly by the shoulders and gently shove them back to their greenest, most golden glory
This morning, there were serious gardening plans and skies seriously heavy with not just a chance, but with a promise of rain. Twelve gaps in the strawberry bed, twelve damp handfuls of earth dug out, twelve deft and dandy strawberry plants ready to dip their toes into our little homestead, with twelve hours of a gentle rain as a neighborhood welcome wagon
The rain takes the mud from my mucking about and washes it down the driveway and down the street to the storm drain where it crosses the street underground and enters the river somewhere in our neighbor’s backyard
So, technically, we are a tributary of the Arkansas River, and right here, in our driveway, is the headwaters.
Someday, I think I’ll use that in a poem