Silly, I Know...

I can't help daydreaming about spring. I used to think that winter agreed with me, that I had a deep affinity for its icy purity; that, being a winter baby, I ought to like it better than those summer-born naysayers who have nothing but abuse for "all this blasted cold."

Well, I haven't exactly changed my mind. I still appreciate the beauty of the season... or at least I would if I were up north instead of down here in Maryland, where "snow" is a halfhearted concept and "ice" has only enough gumption to make driving difficult, but not enough to transform the world into a prism of glass and sunlight. This is what Winter is really like, when you go far enough upward to find her at home:

But enough of complaint. "Now is the winter of my discontent made glorious summer by the" ... hm. I don't know any sons of York, and I never can pick sides in the Wars of the Roses, anyhow. Well, never mind. Shakespeare can't be always on target. On to thoughts of spring!

Whenever I begin to think of spring, my ideas become all vegetative and shoot together--and then out, curling--in tendrils of warm frangrant greenness. I try to separate them. No such luck; they are past distinction and have become so confused in each other that the casual observer may only sit back patiently and wait for a recognizable blossom to appear---and be struck by its beauty when it does.

All lovely in her chamber of the world is Spring, all fair and golden, all red and white, all green-gowned, glowing, the angel of the season's sphere--its star, who lends her shiningness so generously that the whole world becomes a precious stone.

Until she comes to make a gem of this round earth, let us dream in peace. :-)