Merry dreaming: Yes, summer will come.
From the second-story office window I look down to the land far below, dull green in patches where the snow is melting. Swollen with brown snow melt, the creek furrows a flickering line between the yard and a thickly forested steep slope. A bare-limbed tree waves to me outside my window, where just a moment ago a pretty brown bird was spitting out a little song.
A few short weeks will pass, and suddenly I will look out my window and see green, green, green.
But for now, March is still wintry. The wee Canadian hemlocks and the roses with a mass of naked claw-like roots sleep snug in the basement. Elsepth is still sick and she sleeps much of the day congested and worn out in her crib. Merry is sniffly, Martin and I are still in our clothes from last night. We all seem to be waiting, and the waiting is not so bad. Martin and I have both had lots of time to work on our books, and it's comforting to type away side by side into the late hours of the night.
Yesterday we opened an unexpected box from my cousin in Virginia: packets and packets of Indian spices! Delightful! Cumin, coriander, paprika, whole cloves. Martin packed them gently into a basket. They are sleeping, too, promises of flavor explosions confined within their plastic packets, waiting to be ripped open, spilling out on lamb and potatoes and onions. Their time will come. The garden's time will come. My time will come.
Well, Elspeth is awake. Time to fasten her to my hip and find a sunny spot in the house.
When was summer? The greens and warmths and long days of summer start feeling like a dream right about now. . .
Last Note: But though we are sick and stuck at home, at least we didn't glue ourselves to the roof "like a beetle." (See STORY OF MAN GLUED TO ROOF). We should count ourselves as greatly fortunate.
