” … when the world is mud-luscious … when the world is puddle-wonderful…” E.E. Cummings, American poet
There are still patches of dirt-speckled snow on the ground here and there. There will probably be a fresh layer or two to come. But, winter’s grip is broken in this part of Appalachia.
It’s true. Birds are whoop-de-doing outside the bedroom windows every morning. Alarm clocks with no snooze button. Squirrels are chasing each other round and round the maple tree across the street, the skritch skritch of their speedy feet just audible from the deck.
And, the garden. Oh, my. The climbing roses have sprouted leaves smaller than green peas but perfectly formed. Crocus leaves are obvious given their relative greenness to the zoysia grass that has taken over what little lawn we have kept.
The mud won’t be far behind. It’s mostly the dog’s fault. He goes out. He comes in. And, bits of this and that gather on his feet. In the spring, it’s always mud. Always,
We keep a towel at the back door so people — by which I mean myself and only myself — can wipe his feet. But, sometimes he’s too fast for me, shooting across the kitchen and down a hall to the living room, footprints marking his every step on all that wood that old houses have.
I also have a husband and children, all of whom are old enough to know to wipe their feet, but often forget.
So, it is nearly spring and there will be a film of mud punctuated by discernable footprints. I will mop. With Murphy’s Oil. The house will smell like an old country church. Clean enough to almost be righteous.
At least for a moment.