The mere mention of snow or cold produces an immediate reflex.  We cringe, roll our eyes, and fling our arms into the air as if to surrender. It’s almost fun to mention, in passing, just to see the glaring daggers thrown your way.  We’ve become ever so jaded this winter that if the weatherman predicts warming temperatures in the future, our immediate reaction is one of distrust, disdain, and lingering pessimism.  Discussing the weather these days is no longer a harmless ice breaker but rather a trash talking taunt.  Beware when mentioning in idyll chit-chat.

The remaining mountains of snow have been reduced to gray, dirty mounds of icy stalagmites.  The landscape, like us, is still very much in flux, but the vast majority of the pain is behind us.  Longer days have set the season in motion, whether it feels like it or not.  Buds are forming, birds are singing, bulbs are breaking through, and the grass, is at least, visible.  Reports are coming in that Crocus have been sighted, like a beautiful, rare bird.  In the next week or so, be on the look out for Forsythia, Serviceberry, Redbud, and certain species of Magnolia.  They should be blooming soon, but there’s a real concern that those shrubs and trees that set their buds early may have been knocked back by the frost, so their display may not be quite as brilliant.  Rest assured, the beauty of Spring will not be dismissed, and we should feel inspired to participate in nature’s rebirth, perhaps with a coat and most certainly our hip waders.

“In the Spring I have counted one hundred and thirty-six different kinds of weather inside of four and twenty hours.”

-Mark Twain

Best wishes,

Kim Sweeney