The eastern Kentucky hills have faces for every season. Summer's endless green gives way to the chill and fire of autumn, and winter's face is subtle, with no joy for the unwary. In spring, however, the changes arc across the landscape in clouds of change.
First of all come the tiny blooming mosses, their roots massed soft on ground still frozen. Minute blooms of red or greenish white nod secrets from beneath the mobile feet of the forest, the rooted feet of trees sheltering the amazing endurance of the spreading colonies.
Then, from beneath the tattered, decaying remains of last year's leaves, a sparkle of greenery shows its delicate face. Stands of daffodil, sunshine yellow, give nod to old times, home sites abandoned for this reason or that, small glossy accents lighting up the still subtle colors of their world.
Life goes on, and upon the ashes of a cold white phoenix, that ice and fire combination of winter, an avalanche of color comes into being once again. Kittens and puppies, foals and calves, rabbits and bird nests full of new hungry faces, life is maker and keeper of its own jungles of hunger and hope and dreams.
We shall plant a garden, and in it first of all we shall plant hope. We shall plant the dream of a better world, we shall plant flowers of hunger for a brightness in a landscape of angry past.
In our garden filled with mundane cabbages, broccoli, cauliflower, onions, beans, corn, potatoes, and many herbs, we shall wait for the nodding heads of color. Massive mammoth sunflowers, zinnias, marigolds. We shall smile upon the green, and treasure their gift of tomorrows worth living.
And we shall go on. Because there is naught else left to do when the day is done and the tired, aging body is laid down for a too-brief rest. For tomorrow is yet another day, and we have it to face as it comes.