Spring brings impatience into bloom

In our neighborhood, we have almost, but not quite, reached the point at which our countryside "colors up." It often occurs about the time that the snow has melted and the small ponds and shallow marshes are ice free. We suspect (expectations have a way of being dashed these days) that sometime next week, barring visits from major snowstorms, we'll have reached that point for this year. When we do, the neighborhood will look like the picture below, but we haven't yet had quite enough warmth this Spring to melt the snow and awaken the bushes.

Spring's colors emerge slowly until they're here

Photo by J. Harrington

We confess that, during the past few days, we've been guilty of, as our mother used to say, "getting ahead of ourselves." This is still the last week of March. April in our North Country has been know to deliver soul-crushing snow storms. If the ground has been bare enough, long enough, the snow cover then doesn't last long on the thawed ground but, as we've mentioned, we're not there yet.

Sometime next week the "normal" overnight temperatures are supposed to begin to stay at or above freezing (32℉). We've been looking through our pictures of emerging skunk cabbage and the dates range from mid-March to Mid-April. Spring in this neck of the woods is often more skittish than a new-born lamb or calf. Just when we think it's settled down for a bit, it scampers away again. This gives us quite a few opportunities to practice patience, something we could usually stand much more of. Mom's observation about getting ahead of ourselves sometimes has way more truth than we like.

The Enkindled Spring

D. H. Lawrence, 1885- 1930

This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between
Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.

I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration 
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,
Faces of people streaming across my gaze.

And I, what fountain of fire am I among
This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed
About like a shadow buffeted in the throng
Of flames, a shadow that’s gone astray, and is lost.

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