Post by Rhonda on Oct 20, 2007 1:41:42 GMT -5
WHEN IT'S TIME
by Michael T. Smith
Leaves bounced over the grass, propelled by the wind. I knelt
in front of freshly tilled soil.
A leaf slapped against my leg, stuck for a moment, and fled with
the next gust. Others followed -- a colorful march across the yard.
I created a hole in the soil with my trowel and reached into the
bag of bulbs at my side. I removed one, placed it in the hole,
tenderly covered it, and shuffled to the side. Grass stained my
jeans as I moved down the line -- dig, plant, cover.
The bag was empty. The bulbs were planted. I showered the
sweat and dirt from my body, and sat on my deck. The weakening sun
warmed me, but the cool breeze and tumbling leaves reminded me winter
would soon follow.
The bulbs weren't sleeping. Their roots grew downward, drawing
nutrients from the soil. The cool earth triggered cells to produce
small leaves and flower buds under the ground, where they would wait
for the warmth of spring.
* * * *
From my window, I watched the first snow of the year cover my
flower bed. The soil, still warm from the waning sun, melted the
first flakes, but was soon overcome. The snow built up.
A month later, the ground was frozen solid. Winds whipped
powdery snow into piles. Barren trees creaked and clattered with
each gust. I threw a log on the fire, made a pot of tea, and waited.
* * * *
The days grew longer, the air warmer. Snow melted and formed
puddles on the still frozen ground. At night, the surface of the
puddles froze, but the water beneath soaked into the soil, feeding
the bulbs.
In the morning, there would be clear layers of ice where the
puddles were. It shattered like glass beneath my boots.
Spring came, the air warmed. I walked in the yard. Under my
weight, water squeezed from the soil and filled the tracks I left
behind. On the southern side of the house, close to the basement
walls, grass became green.
In my flower bed, shoots of green pushed through the surface.
In a few weeks, they grew taller, reaching for the sun. Buds formed
at their tips and burst into color. I smiled -- new life.
A few weeks later, the flower pedals fell free and were carried
off by the wind. The leaves continued to grow tall and strong,
making food for new bulbs.
The weather cooled. The leaves dried, browned, and withered
away. Snow fell again. The new bulbs lie hidden under the soil.
They would have their moment of glory. Nature took care of the
bulbs. If they grew and bloomed too early, they'd die. They
wouldn't be prepared for their environment. The cold would kill them.
Once again, I threw a log on the fire. I trusted nature.
The flowers would bloom again -- when it's time.
-- Michael T. Smith <msmith4 at nj.rr.com>
by Michael T. Smith
Leaves bounced over the grass, propelled by the wind. I knelt
in front of freshly tilled soil.
A leaf slapped against my leg, stuck for a moment, and fled with
the next gust. Others followed -- a colorful march across the yard.
I created a hole in the soil with my trowel and reached into the
bag of bulbs at my side. I removed one, placed it in the hole,
tenderly covered it, and shuffled to the side. Grass stained my
jeans as I moved down the line -- dig, plant, cover.
The bag was empty. The bulbs were planted. I showered the
sweat and dirt from my body, and sat on my deck. The weakening sun
warmed me, but the cool breeze and tumbling leaves reminded me winter
would soon follow.
The bulbs weren't sleeping. Their roots grew downward, drawing
nutrients from the soil. The cool earth triggered cells to produce
small leaves and flower buds under the ground, where they would wait
for the warmth of spring.
* * * *
From my window, I watched the first snow of the year cover my
flower bed. The soil, still warm from the waning sun, melted the
first flakes, but was soon overcome. The snow built up.
A month later, the ground was frozen solid. Winds whipped
powdery snow into piles. Barren trees creaked and clattered with
each gust. I threw a log on the fire, made a pot of tea, and waited.
* * * *
The days grew longer, the air warmer. Snow melted and formed
puddles on the still frozen ground. At night, the surface of the
puddles froze, but the water beneath soaked into the soil, feeding
the bulbs.
In the morning, there would be clear layers of ice where the
puddles were. It shattered like glass beneath my boots.
Spring came, the air warmed. I walked in the yard. Under my
weight, water squeezed from the soil and filled the tracks I left
behind. On the southern side of the house, close to the basement
walls, grass became green.
In my flower bed, shoots of green pushed through the surface.
In a few weeks, they grew taller, reaching for the sun. Buds formed
at their tips and burst into color. I smiled -- new life.
A few weeks later, the flower pedals fell free and were carried
off by the wind. The leaves continued to grow tall and strong,
making food for new bulbs.
The weather cooled. The leaves dried, browned, and withered
away. Snow fell again. The new bulbs lie hidden under the soil.
They would have their moment of glory. Nature took care of the
bulbs. If they grew and bloomed too early, they'd die. They
wouldn't be prepared for their environment. The cold would kill them.
Once again, I threw a log on the fire. I trusted nature.
The flowers would bloom again -- when it's time.
-- Michael T. Smith <msmith4 at nj.rr.com>