All day long, maple seed pods fluttered down in a spring breeze, a shower of twirling seeds. Where I live in Vermont, the seasons release easy rain and fierce rain, snow in leafy flakes and snow hard as buckshot. Last week, the dandelions burst, and all day long, all night long, seeds lifted with their miniature canopies of sail and soared free from their stalks, heading out on their journeys. Now, maple seeds are thrown in veritable handfuls from the trees and cast into the breeze, floating in an emptied glass of lemonade, on the little daughter’s new sweater left on the porch, against the window glass, into our hair.
June 6th. Season of renewal, of surging growth. My daughters and I walked along an abandoned railroad bed this afternoon, bending beneath greenery tenting over the railbed. Domestic cows, wild geese, a cardinal, the crickets already counting down the days of warmth.
June 6th. When I was in high school, a French exchange student told me, My grandmother is from Normandy, and she will never forget D-Day.
All day long, those seeds swirled. All night, while we sleep and dream, and tomorrow morning, too, when the girls wake and wash and eat their sleepy breakfast, while we walk down our driveway to meet the school bus, the girls already thinking of their school day ahead, me holding my coffee and saying, Have a good day, goodbye, goodbye, see you this afternoon, those seeds will still be shedding on our shoulders and hands and before our eyes. Then, for this year, too, that will be done.
….This is the season of mud and trash, broken limbs and crushed briers
from the winter storms, wetness and rust,
the season of differences, inarticulable differences that signify
deeper and inarticulable and almost paleolithic
perplexities in our lives, and still
we love one another.