April 4 ~cold with sprigs of hope

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.

 

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About Sharon Hart Addy

Writing is the monkey on my back. Sometimes it's great fun and sometimes it -- well, things can't be fun all the time, but it's still engrossing even when I chew my nails and scratch my head while searching for inspiration. Fiction is my particular fondness. Writing it and reading it.
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