I’m not sure.
Looking out from my workspace window, I see a bush with yellow flowers blooming so hard that that every branch appears to emit sunshine. However, the shrub next to it is a tangle of dead twigs. I don’t see a hint of hydrangeas.
I don’t believe spring has arrived.
In front of the house, daffodils are holding court, triumphant survivors of March and April snowfalls, but I fear for them even as they stand tall in their hubris. There have been other years… other daffodils… other storms that have buried proud yellow petals under snow and ice.
This has been such a devious winter. It took its good time reaching us here in New Jersey, where cold days and nights barely made an appearance in December and January. February was downright warm, with some sunny days nearing the eighties. March, though, was a monster… a frigid, spitting monster spewing great white waves of thick, wet snow, which has continued into April. Easter eggs were buried in crystalline piles of ice; children rushed out of their seasonal finery so they could play in warm clothes.
It doesn’t feel like spring… and they’ve predicted more snow for next week.
How can I look at my yellow flowers and let them fill my heart with hope? How can I allow my soul to shed its layers of protection, when even nature has proven itself to be false?
I look through my sunlit window, and put my hand to the glass. It’s cold.