Carol Jane Remsburg
After a long stretch of dry, warming days more like summer than spring, the cool, rainy mists returned. It had begun the previous day. The weather was full of fits and starts seeming not to know whether to really rain or not. It was a good beginning for the earth that had suffered withdrawal.
All the things that had been growing across the land had begun the yellow and wither. The average homeowner kept their sprinklers "tic-tic-ticking" with arcing sprays of water to keep their lawns green and paid special attention to their small stands of tomatoes and such. Meanwhile, the farmers had no small patch to nourish, they had to wait for the rains during this critical time of germination and early growth. And then it came.
The air grew substance. The breeze became chill. The sun withdrew. Now was the time for the mists. With intermittent showers and no real heavy rain, it was as if nature were preparing the land for a ritual.
It was Sunday and the forecast for the next forever called for rain, thunderstorms, mists, and more rain and storms. It was definitely a day for humans to remain indoors; dry, sheltered, and otherwise entertained. Thus, many of us missed the transformation.
The grasses, the plants, the trees, and all things green reacted as we would if treated with a steam and a massage after a hard labor. The only audible response was from the trees, the most obvious spokespeople of plant-life. They've earned their stature to speak. Their language was in sighs from the gentle touch of the mist and the breeze. It overlaid the silent sucking sounds from the grasses, flowers, and plants as they absorbed the sweet drink without being pelted. More would follow. All seemed to know and were content.
Hearing their contentment I couldn't remain inside. I wanted to rejoice and observe the makeover of the land. My tiger lilies seemed to stretch in reaction to luxurious pampering—much unlike they ever did when I watered them even gently. My crabgrass that has stunted itself and had begun to yellow suddenly didn't seem so stunted; its green color was returning quickly. The corn in the farmer's field next door was positively ecstatic and seemed to sprout before my very eyes. My maple trees were simply reveling in their beauty treatment.
Yet it was the lower groundcover that caught my true attention. While all the others seemed to be having a party or at least noticeably savoring the heavy mist, the sprightly clover took little notice. It had been the one thing that had shown few effects from our mini-drought. It was as perky in the dry as in the mist as well as in the downpours. It's lively and full of pure blossoms to feed my bunnies.
There was something about the clover that demanded my attention. Within seconds I knew all I needed to know or remember. Clover is different. Clover is always fresh and sweet. Clover is also the best bed for rumination and 4-leaf hunting.
Clover is an amusement park right in your own backyard because it provides a soft pillow while gazing up at the clouds. Clover is a welcome idyll from either blue-grass fescue or ordinary crabgrass because it has the personality the others lack.
So on this day, this rainy, misty, cool Sunday, I focus on this tiny patch of growth. Clover is a happy little grass but it is of a refined variety—it has class. This rediscovery made me eager for all the rain to end and dry out. I want to sit among the clover again. It's comforting—even in the mist.