It rained today. This is a good thing in March after nearly three weeks of record temperatures. Not middle of desert scorch temperatures we get in July, but still. It was something more decadent feeling--70 degrees in mid-March! The bulbs, like wine-muddled debutantes the day after the ball, stretch luxuriously towards the warmth. Crocuses have come and gone, brief flashes of light in the gray mornings of early spring, and now the daffodils nod to the pansies at their feet, beckoning the tulips to hurry and dance in the sun.
And then rain came today, gray and cold, reminding us that March at the feet of the mountains is meant to morph winter to spring with a slow grace. We’ve forgotten that this year, the bulbs and I. I’ve had to remind the daffodils, those sad ladies bending their cup faces to the ground today, mourning the loss of the sun. I’ve told them to think of the peas in the vegetable garden and to be patient. April’s grace isn’t far away.