Spring, sprang, sprung!!!

The freezing rain I’ve complained about for the past few days left a diamond-sparkle coating on the crowns of trees and bushes in this morning’s sunshine. Pretty close to a literal silver lining. There’s also a lot of icy stretches still on the local township roads. That’s neither pretty nor helpful. Our driveway is icy enough that I almost skidded the Jeep into the garage frame as I returned home this morning from a visit with  the Granddaughter. Soon, but not soon enough for my taste, winter’s dregs will be gone.

pond north of the house, early March 2021

Photo by J. Harrington

The driveway is shaded so the sun’s direct rays don’t get to do much damage to the ice on it. I won’t be surprised if we don’t reach bare ground before the end of March. Will we see skunk cabbage emerge in the local wetlands before then? Will we get a long spell of unseasonably warm weather? The answer to the emergence depends on the disappearance of most of the snow. Two years ago spring arrived earlier than usual [see photo above]. It could happen again but I’m not counting on it.

Then again, a local stream that, a week ago, was invisible under snow and ice, I saw today as I drove past. That’s not something I would have suggested possible a week ago, so I’m going to use this March as a training period to focus on the good things that happen and try to let life’s annoyances wash away with the snowmelt. Remember, or discover, that Spring Is a New Beginning. Tomorrow begins meteorological spring. I can’t wait for it to begin, even if it snows tonight.

Dear March—Come in—(1320)

Emily Dickinson - 1830-1886

Dear March—Come in—
How glad I am—
I hoped for you before—
Put down your Hat—
You must have walked—
How out of Breath you are—
Dear March, how are you, and the Rest—
Did you leave Nature well—
Oh March, Come right upstairs with me—
I have so much to tell—

I got your Letter, and the Birds—
The Maples never knew that you were coming—
I declare - how Red their Faces grew—
But March, forgive me—
And all those Hills you left for me to Hue—
There was no Purple suitable—
You took it all with you—

Who knocks? That April—
Lock the Door—
I will not be pursued—
He stayed away a Year to call
When I am occupied—
But trifles look so trivial 
As soon as you have come

That blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame—

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