The scar

Yesterday was my first delivery of the season. I harvested salad mix and arugula and drove to New London in the snow (although the roads were not bad at all), and it was nice to see how excited people were to have fresh greens again. They opened up the container and looked at what I brought, and their faces lit right up with the hope of spring. That made me feel good.

Today it's crazy windy, and bitter cold outside. I took care of the cows and covered my greens in the high tunnel with three layers of cloth. Hopefully they'll make it through tonight, as the temps are supposed to be in the single digits.

Now I'm warm inside, with a whole bunch of books for company.
This is Blue Squills from Sara Teasdale's Collected Poems. I love Sara Teasdale, and it kills me that she committed suicide. I wish I could tell her how much her poems make life more beautiful for me.

How many million Aprils came
   Before I ever knew
How white a cherry bough could be,
   A bed of squills, how blue!

And many a dancing April
   When life is done with me,
Will lift the blue flame of the flower
   And the white flame of the tree.

Oh, burn me with your beauty, then,
   Oh, hurt me, tree and flower,
Lest in the end death try to take
   Even this glistening hour.

O shaken flowers, O shimmering trees,
   O sunlit white and blue,
Wound me, that I through endless sleep
   May bear the scar of you.