I choose to call this early spring instead of late winter, though you and I both know I'm just joshin'. Our good friend Arne took these pictures of our hike two weekends ago (that other good daddy is Julio and that other little bear is Lucas). It felt like early spring--gusts of wind blew through the bare trees, and the wind was warm. Near the end of the hike I peeled off my hat and it felt as if spring exploded inside my head.
This week? Snow flurries. Frost. Children with colds and cough. More laundry. Typical February gooky stuff.
But I saw the tips of our crocus coming through the soil. It's coming, folks, though all I have now is a MEMORY OF GREEN. The memory is of something real. I know because I have seen the pictures of our garden recently in mid summer. Y'all remember that? Weeds and flowers and vegetables and what-not? Sleeping under a sheet and nothing else? Ceiling fans? Fresh basil? The overwhelming scent of dill going to seed? Roses and japanese beetles? Raspberries on prolific canes?
It will all return, the good and the ugly. Mostly the good and the succulent.
February, beware. Your days are numbered.
