We have a long way to go. Although a light snow year, our heaviest months — March and April — are to come. But while grilling on the back deck yesterday afternoon, I spotted something meriting investigation.
Tiny poppy plants from those seeded to prepare for our eldest’s wedding last August are alive and well under a blanket of deceptive white stuff. No spring breezes, April showers, fertilizer, or mulch encourage these babies, which also must survive deer, elk, and chipmunks. And probably the ferret spotted only because it’s black-tipped tail and eyes didn’t blend into a snowy background like its long white body. (Think ermine, but spunkier.)
When we xeriscaped (planted drought-hearty plants), I chose reds and pinks, white and yellows, orange and coral. And blues! They’ve reseeded vigorously, so I scattered leftover seeds in crevices of the kids’ terrace — where the poppies
pop appear. Apparently my efforts were not in vain.
To be clear, we need snow. Our snow becomes water for the country’s southwestern quadrant. We’re headwaters for four major rivers: the Arkansas, Colorado, Platte, and Rio Grande. So snow’s not about skiing or real estate (they correlate), or fly fishing (well, it MIGHT be about fly fishing for some of us), but rather is about enough snowpack to sustain life as we know it.
I remember ranch drought years, when down-valley neighbors turned on faucets to receive dust. Drought can happen. Drought has happened. Drought is here. (Note a trend?)
But to happier thoughts. After eight-hundred daffodil and narcissus bulbs spike through late-spring’s snowy remains, poker plants, wild alyssum, sedum, Indian blankets, coreopsis, and other crazy lovelies explode in the yard.
I am blessed to gaze at my kaleidoscope for months, marveling at God’s joyful cultivation of such vibrant beauty. What a view He must have!