I have been my usual vociferous self when lamenting this long, cold, snowy winter. Today, it seems as if Spring really is coming. The signs are everywhere: receding snowbanks, snow that has lost it's gleam and looks shopworn, the emerging brown of dead grass overlaid with a tangle of whip-size willow branches pruned by the wind. I should be feeling a sense of glorious anticipation. Instead, I find myself wondering if I'm really ready for Spring.
Am I ready to trade the hours I have indoors to write and think, edit and imagine for the work of raking, cleaning out flower beds and cutting back last year's dead foliage? Am I ready for the achy muscles, the quandaries over what to plant, where and when? Today, I seem caught between two seasons, not exactly wanting winter to go on, or God forbid, the arrival of more snow, but not yet ready to fully embrace all that comes with the change of seasons.
