There's a whisper of something warm on the air. The squeals of children playing in the field sound a little like summer though while they run their breath still shoots ahead of them as steam does from a train.
We are still falling from winter. We celebrated the Resurrection by scraping our windshields in the early hours so we could get to church on time. Nothing bursts from the garden yet - no hint of colour on this grey landscape - and our hearts are weary with dreams of spring but we keep on believing because if we stop aren't we just like that dirty pile of old snow outside the barn, clinging to the shadows instead of grasping for the sun?
I wasn't built for the cold. None of us were, really. We ache to peel off layers and dig our fingers into the soil and hang the laundry behind the house. We pine for crab-apple blossoms and free-range chickens and a cat that naps for less than nineteen hours a day.
We long for Spring, yet she drags her heels with the stubbornness of a harrumphing mule and we think about crying if it wouldn't make us a fool.
The snow that fell yesterday was fat and prideful and as I watched it fall to the ground I wanted to scream. I would have too - if it wasn't so pretty...