They are calling my name. And I can't resist any longer, I don't need to resist any longer, because the snow has melted, and may-be it won't be back for months, or may-be not.
My shovel and my rake, and my hoe. my wheelbarrow, all standing propped up along the garage wall, since the large wooden box they were kept in got turned into a smokehouse, getting ready to say our prayer of thanksgiving that winter is finally over.
Waiting to rake up the pine cones and branches the squirrels had cut, the twigs and limbs that the wind and snows had brought down. Waiting to rake over the flowerbeds and plant new seeds.
Waiting to turn that first shovel of earth and to spread the compost of a winter's worth parings and peelings, eggshells and trimmings. And waiting to say that first thanksgiving, for these days we don't need to pray for good crops, we back yard gardeners will not starve if they fail, but that is no reason not to be grateful for the end of winter.
