Just last week. . .

There's a soft, fuzzy head tucked under my chin as I type, so I'm not sure how many words I'll be able to share with you today. The owner of the velvet head is tucking two stuffed dogs, a plastic cupcake, and various other things into a purple Kenyan purse. The forsythia on my table has gone wild, a mass of lemon-colored blooms, and the smell of angel food cake baking fills the house. . .if I weren't supposed to be readying the house for a women's luncheon, I'd be perfectly comfortable to sit here in my robe for a few more hours, typing away.

Outside, it looks like February again--gray, flurrying snow, a few black birds flying low and swift over the tops of bristling tree branches.

And it was only last week that our garden felt like a park, with our friends and neighbors congregating in the garden to dig, trim, run and roll in the grass. The girls and their friends rode down the hill in the wagon numerous times, made soup from wild onions, and frolicked like puppies that have been locked in a pen for four months.

Spring. Come back, sun, and bring the tulips. Whoops, angel food cake is possibly burning. . .gotta dash.