There are crocuses blooming in the snow, and daffodils in bud. Plants, surely, have some inside information that this long cold winter is done? I have had enough of snow. There are things that have not made it through the winter: the tender buds of pink camellias, now frozen and brown; last year’s growth on the figs, and maybe more; a dear friend, gone in a flash and leaving so much she loved behind her. She would have had more patience than I do for the platitudes and schlock about divine purpose. I usually take great comfort in knowing our world recycles life, all life, great and small, but this winter I haven’t. Life into death into life is all well and good in the long view, but this winter there is a boy who needed his mom, and I refuse to try to find meaning in it.
But the crocuses are blooming, and perhaps the snow is done. Perhaps.