There’s a single, straggley crocus growing at the edge of my upstairs garden, its lone flower floundering in the chilly March wind. Easter is early this year, and the mountain is not quite ready to relinguish its sleepy, winter coat.
The azealea bush is struggling too. The winter ice and snow turned about 2/3rds of its branches black. But the 1/3 that is still viable is green and strong. Maybe I should have wrapped it in burlap. I’ll wait until it’s warmer to prune the black branches and see how it fares on its own. Right now I’m just grateful that the worst of the winter weather is probably over.
This winter has been really hard. I’m ready to abandon its morose, dark, cold, barren ways to see and smell wet, fertile earth, green fields and wild flowers. I need to feel life coursing swiftly again.