The Dance

Spring is a big dance floor.  Each of us moving in our own orbits, frenetic.  For this moment it feels wild, chaotic, raucous, but the years have taught me the choreography of the whole.  That each frenzy is but cog in the machine that is a farm.  So much to be done by these sixteen hands, here, there, together, apart.  Let your eyes glaze and the inchoate solidifies like a stereogram-the method to the madness, coaxing life from the ground up. From seeds one hand has sown, another transplanted, another cultivated, and yet another tended and harvested, another washed, and another eaten.

​This is what fuels our dancing.  Each step, one in front of the other, sometimes mine, sometimes yours, to arrive again at the beginning.  It is a nourishing thing, the growing of food.  In both the obvious and obscure way.  We come again each season, like wildlife to water, awakening to the dance of spring.

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