Mary's Journal, Season by Season

Lyrics

The tallow lamp sputters.
Another day is done.
Just you and I, my little book.
Let's write down the sun.

April, eighteen forty-three.
The frost is finally out of the earth.
My hands still ache from turning it over.
Felt the cold dampness cling.
The Lincoln peas went in today, two long rows.
And the beans, for drying.
The corn can wait another week.
A promise whispered into the dark soil.

And here, in this ledger of ink and paper,
I keep the truest account.
Not of dollars, not of cents,
But of every sprout that breaks the tended ground.
The turning of the season's wheel,
written in the lines upon my hand.

July now, the heat sits heavy.
The squash vine wants to own the world.
I fight it back every morning.
Pulled peppermint by the stream for Sarah's child.
The potato beetles are a plague this year.
My fingernails are permanently black with soil.
So much to do before the sun is high.
So much life, and so much trying.

And here, in this ledger of ink and paper,
I keep the truest account.
Not of dollars, not of cents,
But of every sprout that breaks the tended ground.
The turning of the season's wheel,
written in the lines upon my hand.

Soon the air will sharpen.
The work will move inside.
From the garden to the kitchen.
The smell of vinegar, sharp and clean.
The steam of boiling berries, sweet and thick.
Row upon row on the pantry shelf.
A different kind of planting.
A harvest against the coming dark.

October tenth. The last of the carrots are in the root cellar.
The herbs hang from the rafters in the still room,
their dusty ghosts scenting the air.
I tucked the beds in with straw today.
Let them sleep now.
The little wooden box of seeds is full for next year.
My work is done. For now.

The ink is drying on the page.
Mary Pratt, her year.
The lamp flickers low.
The tended ground is quiet.
And it waits.