Looking forward to -- in 2022

Outside the temperature has “warmed” up to 0℉. Spring Equinox will occur locally on Sunday, March 20 at 10:33 am CDT. That’s almost 77 days from now. A little later this year I’ll add a countdown clock but, at the moment, Spring seems as close, or far away, as forever.

frosted single pane window in January

Photo by J. Harrington

Several years ago we replaced the siding and windows on the house. Although we have now lost the beauty of frost-covered window panes [see above], I’m not convinced we’ve gained a lot of meaningful insulation with the new double-paned windows. It’s much cooler near the picture windows on the South and West than in the East-facing rooms at the front of the house.

The Better Half is fixin’ chili for dinner. That’ll also fill the house with wonderful aromas as it cooks. If winter temperatures never dropped much below 20℉ I’d probably come around to enjoying at least some aspects of this season. But, even with climate breakdown, such is probably not to be, at least in my lifetime. Instead, I’ve added an ivy plant and the Better Half a begonia to bring Spring inside and cheer us past the Yuletide. In fact, I’m going to keep my eyes open for a pot of bulbs we can put on the  dining table as a centerpiece. That makes more sense than constantly carping about the weather. Has anyone figured out why  and how it is that humans can change the climate, but not effectively change the weather? But then, we’d probably never figure out how to agree on what to change it to day by day.

Winter: My Secret

By Christina Rossetti

I tell my secret? No indeed, not I;

Perhaps some day, who knows?

But not today; it froze, and blows and snows,

And you’re too curious: fie!

You want to hear it? well:

Only, my secret’s mine, and I won’t tell.

Or, after all, perhaps there’s none:

Suppose there is no secret after all,

But only just my fun.

Today’s a nipping day, a biting day;

In which one wants a shawl,

A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:

I cannot ope to everyone who taps,

And let the draughts come whistling thro’ my hall;

Come bounding and surrounding me,

Come buffeting, astounding me,

Nipping and clipping thro’ my wraps and all.

I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows

His nose to Russian snows

To be pecked at by every wind that blows?

You would not peck? I thank you for good will,

Believe, but leave the truth untested still.

Spring’s an expansive time: yet I don’t trust

March with its peck of dust,

Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,

Nor even May, whose flowers

One frost may wither thro’ the sunless hours.

Perhaps some languid summer day,

When drowsy birds sing less and less,

And golden fruit is ripening to excess,

If there’s not too much sun nor too much cloud,

And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,

Perhaps my secret I may say,

Or you may guess.

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