We stand, undeterred in the sideways blowing snow. Are the dandelion puffballs the first clusters sticking to the ground? Or have the puffballs erupted in epic style? April. The redbuds are fetching with a white dusting upon them. A lone pale daffodil still hangs in the swirl, the last of her sisters for this year.
The gift humbles and reminds that we are not in charge. We’re squatting on this rock hurtling around a star and wobbling on its axis, thereby granting our seasons.
Breathe deeply of this cold, for it shall not endure.