March

It is March 1. The sun is just barely peeking out of the gauzy, gray sky, though it is trying desperately. I cannot wait for spring. As much as I love fall, it is spring that I long for. The fall season is beautiful—in its colors, smells, and soft orange glow—but spring is new. It is refreshing. It is what I dream about on those painfully long and dark Minnesota nights. In mid-February, when the only possible way to describe the day, the weather, the mood, is gray. 

March 1 promises spring is coming. There may be a few more snow storms to weather, a few more weeks of leggings and scarfs, but the gradual trend will be towards warmth and new life. 

I'm not sure about everyone else, but I'm ready for the tree in my front yard to look like this again very soon: