We had a little window of spring and in those few glorious days, I pretended it was May.
Got outside. Breathed deep. Went to work in the garden.
Pruned back the skeletal and rusty-hued remains of last fall’s mums so daffodil shoots, tiny and almost translucently green against the dark and winter battered mulch would have room to grow. Got on my knees in the sleeping flower beds, using my hands, cleared out layers of wrinkled leaves and tiny windblown twigs. Excavated a scattershot collection of dog-worn tennis balls – lost in the hydrangeas sometime last summer
We all knew in those few days of glory, winter wasn’t over. We knew March winds would still roar in, blowing rain into swirligigs and knocking tree branches against each other in the night while we burrowed still deeper under the covers. We knew.
So in that window of warmth, I took comfort knowing spring was coming – that barefoot days were on the way.
And in that window of light, I took a deep breath and was grateful.