Spring? Perhaps? Finally?

This weekend I spotted the first blooming things of the season - a few shivering daffodils, and several patches of pale purple crocuses. Though the weather is still chilly and windy and the trees resolutely bare, at least the clouds and rain have stayed away for several days in a row. I am contemplating expressing a belief in spring, but those few delicate, valiant blossoms still seem so vulnerable to attacking snow flurries or freezing rains.

It's more than the end of gray skies, bare trees, and dead grass that I'm craving. I want it to be warm. I want the freedom to walk outside without a coat and scarf and umbrella. I want to ride my bike to the library on a whim, take my Sunday cup of tea to drink on a bench in the park at the end of the street, stroll at sunset along the river without hunching my shoulders against the wind. So many times this month I've said, "As soon as it's warm, I will." Always soon, it seems, never now.

My mother's yard is awash in blooming things: the apple tree, plum trees, bottlebrush, camellias, pansies, poppies, marguerites, azaleas, even the gladiolas have joined the general exuberance, despite being very out of season.

March is always when I miss California the most.