As of this afternoon, they still haven’t sprung through the soil. But I did gather an early harvest from my garden today: two slender stalks of asparagus which I’d planted last spring. I’ve added them to the store-bought bunch I’m steaming for dinner tonight. I’m certain that I’ll recognize my own, just as a mother can pick her child from the crowd. I was a bit sad to cut them, afraid that perhaps these two spears would comprise the year’s yield. Yet, as I knelt with my pruning shears in hand, I saw that more spiky tips had just barely broken through the soil.
As much as I’d like to claim their emergence as having something to do with me, I won’t. I’d rather just revel in the mystery of it all: how these plants just know; how they each do their thing silently, but brightly; and how grateful I am to witness, quietly, this spring.