Les Verts Monts

It's been raining and raining, and it's supposed to rain some more.  Vermont is living up to its original French name:  les verts monts, the green mountains.  Where just a few weeks ago everything was white, everything now is indescribably green--the trees, the grass, the air itself.  There are green reflections on the puddles and on my winter-white skin.  There are green sprouts in my garden and green frogs--not to mention green algae--in my pond.

There is the deep green of the pastures, the black-green of the evergreens, the yellow-green of the trees that come late into leaf, the curly green of rhubarb and kale.  There is such an aquarium feel to the cool, damp atmosphere that I feel I'm swimming rather than walking when I go outside.  And when Bisou comes in from our outings, she is as drenched as if she'd been in a lake instead of a field.

In all this greenness, I am grateful for the Monet-like swaths of dandelions on pastures and lawns, the pink and white of the apple blossoms, and the orange-red of Bisou, running wetly through the tall grass.  And I'm grateful, too, to Federico Garcia Lorca, who, in a land of olive-drab, dreamed a dark green dream:

Verde que te quiero verde.
Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
El barco sobre la mar
y el caballo en la montaña.
Con la sombra en la cintura
ella sueña en su baranda,
verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de fría plata.