“Time,” says I, “to sharpen shears and patch the fence. Time to think of plowing furrows softened past this cold suspense.”
“Aye, but March, she brings no charity mixed in mud and heavy snow. Best hold your anxious hand, boy. Calm yourself ‘til spring to sew.”
The old man spoke in truths that tho’ March toward spring was burgeoning, was far too soon to set the plow and ponder on rows’ furrowing.
“I’ll bet she comes like lamb this year,” I mused in counter confidence. “I’ll bet that Easter soothes the soil in April blossom’s countenance.”
“Could be,” he smiled a sparkled grin, “but here we’ve frost ‘til first of May. Best hope for planting April rows will grow on how you pray!”
We laughed and settled back to count the coffee cups before us. “It’s just this winter’s driven deep.” So sighed we too in chorus.
“Well my friend,” he stood to go, “appreciate the morning break.”
“So to March and knee deep snow,” and with a nod, “I’ll see ya Jake.”