Renewing...

In winter my horse grows a thick, fuzzy coat. She looks like a bear, but weathers cold winds, snow, ice and rain in apparent comfort. In the spring that hair falls out by the fist full, leaving a short, sleek, gleaming coat behind. January may be the official "New Year," but spring is when life is renewed. Fat buds dot the trees and bushes, brooks swell with snow melt and spring rainfall, birds fill the air from dawn till dark with mating calls. And there are daffodils and crocus springing up around homes and randomly in the woods and fields, where homes probably once were... unremembered but marked by the glow of lingering flowers. I like to think of long-gone hands plopping papery bulbs into cold fall soil. The flowers remain- bright reminders that life renews. I feel the surge of awakening in my veins.

Thankful Thursday...

Oh boy oh boy oh boy! Look what I found under the crab apple tree! Wee little daffodil leaves peeking up. The ground is still quite frozen, but these intrepid hardy plants are making a run for the sun. There are some tulip leaves peeking up, also. The light has changed, too; it has a brighter quality that promises spring is on its way. This coming weekend we will change the clocks, and that will stretch our days out, giving us precious time to putter in the yard after work. Or even take my pony for a ride. I feel positively giddy with the possibilities.

Herald of Spring...

The ground is still covered with dirty snow, and the walk from the house to the chicken coop is nearly impassible due to ice, but there are flashes of color here and there and the air is beginning to resonate with bird song. One early color is that of the Robin's, that arrive far before I think they should, when there is little in the way of food to sustain them until mating season. They look miserable as they huddle in the branches of fruit trees, nibbling on last seasons dry and wrinkled fruit. But soon, soon, the gardens will be full of grubs and worms and the Robin's will lay nests of eggs that reflect the sky. In New England color creeps back onto the landscape in tiny increments. I greet each small promise of spring as it comes, from the tulip leaves poking up under the crab apple to the rosy blush on the uppermost branches of the birch trees.

Indoors I still stoke the wood stove with solid oak and maple, and curl up under a quilt on the sofa, but soon I'll throw the windows open wide and warm air will disturb lace curtains. Loons will return to call on the lake, I'll paddle my kayak on ripple mark waters and embrace the warm days of the next season on my life.