Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Every time I write about the pending emergence of Spring, it goes underground. Case in point: a few weeks back I wrote about the subtle nuances I saw during a lull in early February, a lull where geese flourished and flowers began to emerge.

Since then, winter has returned with a vengeance in the form of gray skies, dropping temperatures, regular snow showers, and enormous heating bills. I try to keep a happy face, but inside I’m wondering when it will be over. Anymore I hesitate to predict.

Instead, I’m searching for ways to lessen my discontent at the lingering clime. I tell myself I can complete additional indoor projects before the weather propels me outside to the lawn and flower beds. I can finish the photo album of our recent trip through the Panama Canal. I can work on my current afghan. I can read and write more.

But I cannot stretch my legs and arms in the direct rays of the sun. I cannot have the satisfaction of cutting my own tulips for my own vases, and I cannot smile at the green grass spread in front of me like a plush carpet.

March indeed came in like a lion this year; whether she goes out like the familiar lamb remains to be seen. I for one want her to go out like a trembling, fearful, acquiescing animal of any species just as long as she takes winter with her.