Thick snow-dots danced in the crisp air as I walked to the mailbox this morning. After sitting indoors all winter, walking the quarter-mile drive is a start toward getting in shape for gardening. It didn’t seem like there was any wind until I turned to walk back to the house. The cold hit me and I pulled up my hood wishing I’d worn my winter jacket.
April is the cruelest month. Yesterday’s temp was in the high sixties. Today, below freezing. The daffodils don’t seem to mind the wild fluctuations between spring and winter. They’re braving the cold, pushing their greenery skyward. I’ll take that as a sign of hope — no, a sign of faith that the sun will grow warmer and spring will be here to stay.
Emily Dickinson caught this morning’s feeling years and years ago:
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.