All of the windows of our house are open to warm night air. It’s still cool enough that I’m in socks and my pajamas are long-sleeved, but the windows are open as much as a declaration of my faith in the changing of seasons as they are for a good airing-out of the place. I have placed so much hope in the coming of Spring this year!

The Chickasaw plums are abloom, and abuzz with their halos of pollinators. The peaches and pears and apples and redbuds and maples are jubilant and painted even before they put on their green dresses. The robins are afoot, red-breasted and burnt as the ground. The cranes are leaving their southern abodes and beginning the northward journey – slow, deliberate and raucous. They make great sweeping circles over the fields and their call is a throaty toast to the intrepid spirit that is driving them and the buds alike. Life calls to be rejuvenated, to be reborn.

The sun has nearly reached it’s equinox; the day has nearly caught the night. More hours of warmth, more balm to resuscitate the chilled marrow of mice and minnows. Movement! Growth. Exhalation. March brings the winds, and the winds bring in change. The plants quake with excitement over the warmth of their feet. All life stirs in springtime. We become restless, and our bodies revolt. Illness overtakes us, then gives way to the sweet air after we are cleansed. We sneeze, we cough, our fluids flow, we are rendered sick by the sudden change; it comes so swiftly. Our sap flows like the maples’ and our stagnations are faced and overcome. Who have we been in winter? The flowers effuse their essences, and we inhale their pollen and their fragrances. We breathe in the change, and are transformed…

We have been working to make space for the size of spring. Winter’s plants are huddled up, close to the ground, close to each other. They are loathe to boast in height or girth. Broccoli is perhaps the bravest in this regard, and oftentimes is frostbitten right on its nose for its hubris. In springtime, there is an element of verticality that is expounded by the plants. The sun beckons, and they heed the call. They grow upward, they shed their shyness and open their wings. The garden transcends the two-dimensional state of winter, and sprouts another axis. I look forward to the mystery that is born from this height, the visual screens of trellised tomatoes and cucumbers, and the wildness that comes later in summer, when the squash run roughshod over anything in their way, and the sun and rain conspire to test the northern limits of the tropics. Papayas and avocadoes and guavas race to finish their fruit before the first frosts return as a reminder of our latitude…

I am getting ahead of myself here. It is still March, and was 28 degrees on Saturday night. Still, having inaugurated a farm in the coldest winter on record, I am tempted to indulge this hope just a bit.

Warmest regards,

Noah Shitama
Swallowtail Farmer