After a fake-out warm spell that was followed by seeming weeks of cold and wet, I’m finally seeing signs of spring as I walk around the neighborhood. Forsythia’s bright yellow is flaring here and there. In my yard, birds are clustered around the feeders, chowing down with intent in preparation for mating and nesting. The daffodils are several inches tall and bulged at the tip with buds, and the miniature roses by the back door are putting forth leaves.
And the crocuses are opening, little purple pops amid the green and brown.
They used to grow in a cluster, but they’ve scattered over the years thanks to the squirrels. I used to have gold and white ones as well, but while one does show up every so often, I think most of them have gone to that big greenhouse in the sky. So I make do with solid purple and white-and-purple striped, and that’s fine. They’ve been coming up every spring for well over twenty years, and their hardiness and persistence is inspiring. They make me want to get to work, clean out the garage, prep the lawn, plant more flowers and shrubs.
I love spring, especially the latter part as it edges into summer. Rich green lawn and foliage, bright blooms, and long days. My favorite time of year, when I feel like all things are possible.