Wednesday is the day we work together at the farm.
I arrived a bit later, Chris was already hard at work. Diego gives me a wet kiss and body shake, Hello.
Some recycled posts laid for some trellising beans and peas, and our new, gifted wheel barrel being put to good use. We have a wheel barrel, can we say we are truly farmers now?
Hey there Ladies… The extra hay in the lay boxes seemed to have fixed our cracked and broken egg problem.
Chris warns me they are irritated today. I don’t stay long…
I check on my latest obsession, the cucumbers. We should have plenty for boxes tomorrow.
I take a moment to admire a perfectly ripe tomato.
Time to get to work. There is much to be planted, and like every other day, weeded. Today we are planting Beans, Lemon Basil, Snow Peas, Radishes, and Arugula.
No better time to meditate on things that are true, noble, right, pure, and lovely than while weeding.
The girls get the scraps, like always.
We put our feet up on hay bales now, waiting for the new seeds to be watered. I look up at the pepper tree and can’t help but think that it looks a lot like the willow tree my sister wrote about this morning. The perfect word for this day.
Sing Willow, Willow, Willow By anna pitney
I am a weeping willow and I am not weeping. I am sweeping, up the ground, up the dirt, up the wide wide field of grass like carpet. Up like a tongue, lapping like Lake Evergreen, always so thirsty, always full.
I am a willow and I am not sad. I am the opposite. I am jealous as ever of the oak and pine and beech—their stately branches mock me, their hardy wood trunks gawk, their widespread roots like a woman’s open skirts gaze at me with the kind of attitude I am not able to decipher. I stay near the water; it is a comfort when I am alone and eyeing the other.
And in my jealousy I sway on the wind, with the wind—no—I am the wind, I make the wind and bring it to you, wrap it up in my branches like vines, like hair. The girl’s is so soft and billowy as she creeps in underneath, tired like a child who hasn’t stopped running, her cheeks flush in the shade, her head of brown curling and flying over her face as she naps.
Come up to me and you’ll feel a certain warmth. Come up to me and you’ll find that answer to that question, and you’ll ask many more. Come under me and you’ll find a swirling sphere to gaze at. I’ll reach down and my leaves will brush your arm and you’ll laugh like you meant it all along and we’ll continue something that we hadn’t started but intended to so long ago.