loves comes burgeoning in just before spring

I am staying on a small farm south of Edmonton for my week off; I return soon and reluctantly for the next three week stint a 6 hr drive up beyond the prairie and through the boreal forest from here. A forest crisscrossed with seismic cuts, oil and gas installations, telecom towers and camps. A world away from this warm fire, its circle of lounging hounds, ski trails past moose prints and dreams of spring. I am putting together a seed order, but the books on the shelf, and the woman who has collected them happily interupt my task: There are hundreds of distractions: Garden Magic, Strange Lives of Familiar Insects, a complete collection of 70s Organic Gardener magazines. They are the books collected by a kindred spirit and reflect the aspirations of a woman farming alone. She goes out to feed her chickens and attend to other farm chores in a furred aviator cap, red insulated coveralls, work jacket, size 10 boots but under it all the lacy bra and a sweet body whose soul I love as much as this dream of spring.