Not Even Winter, and Imagining Spring

"The land is an ark, full of things waiting." (Wendell Berry, "A Wet Time,"  from the book Farming: A Handbook)

The trenches are not even dug.  The manure, though arranged, will not even be delivered until spring and only thereafter spread.  The seed catalogs are weeks, if not months, away.  I've scarcely reflected on my experiences of this summer now past -- gleaning what I might have learned.  I know, at this point, what grew and what didn't, what thrived as far foliage but not so far as fruit, but I have not scratched the surface of why.  I know that not everything need go in the ground at exactly the same time, and that there is wisdom in thoughtful patience, but I have not yet begun to think through a schema.  I possess nothing at this point but capacity, a ready space empty but anxious to be filled with experience and insight of my own but also the harvested wisdom of those who have actually done this kind of thing before. 

And yet already I am wondering about this space newly cleared behind our new home.  What does it possess and for what is it hungry?  What might it grow and at what might it turn up it's nose.  How deep are the roots of the grasses holding it in place?   And how will the deer, already common visitors to the nascent garden, take to my intent to encourage them toward other grazing?  

 
I only have things yet to learn about when and what, exactly where and how and why, and how long the process will take.  But already I am imaging all that this land holds in waiting -- an ark of the living and possibilities waiting to be born.