Morning birdsong is beginning. Robins are flocking. Buds are swelling. The calendar still says it's winter, but signs point to spring.
There is no control over the seasons. They will ebb and flow at their own pace, teasing us with a few warm days, only to freeze the world again by Thursday. I can lament winter's passing and our paltry one and a half snows all I want, but it is to no avail. Spring has the blessed freedom to do as she pleases.
So I give in, seed catalogs scattered on the floor, as I sit cross-legged, sipping tea and pouring over blueberries, basil, heirloom tomatoes and beets. I long to work the soil. Sun on my back, fragrant earth beneath my knees, tiny green shoots growing into salads and pesto, ice cream and pies. It won't be long. I know winter will come again, perhaps next week, but spring is immanent. She'll come what may.