Before the Grass Comes In, Singing.

Before the Grass Comes In, Singing.

(Press PLAY above to hear it read aloud.)

Sunlight soaks the curtains now till five six seven o’clock 
golding everything grateful for warmth so late in the day
the bones of beech leaves shiver, relief 
the fields are flooded with amber 
lighting the way 
for geese to settle, and begin, 
bills busy against the softening ground 
tugging in the season’s green
any day now.

I hear them honking 
more in my jaw than my ear, 
a hunger pang 
for one last soundless meal, here, 
in the muds of March 
muted 
before the grass comes in, singing. 

I go to the pantry
and everything there
is gleaming too, with that same long light
skins of summer - butternut, garlic, onion
fall away from flesh, somehow still supple
as the butterfat chunks of lamb
brown to toffee
and porcini, little fawns, paint the broth 
as blonde as sundown.
I remember floating on my back in the tea-colored pond
flax hair fanning, 
the snapping turtle brushing the backs of my hay-skinned knees
she was so old, she was brand new.

I blow out all the candles 
eat a bowl in silent darkness 
timeless as a seed in soil
a hundred years, resting 
ready
when I hear the horns of flowers coming.  

It’s not salad days yet. Can we have one more week of stew?

This really was one of the best stews I’ve ever made - the alchemy of everything in the root cellar turning into a mirror for the quiet, golden light of March. I might make it again this weekend to keep me warm until things really start to green up.

Early Spring Lamb Stew

Porcini broth for liquid amber in the mug.

INGREDIENTS