I am Done With Winter. It keeps promising to leave, and even pretends to go for a few days at a time, but like a deadbeat houseguest it just keeps slinking back in and raiding the fridge long after it has worn out its welcome.
My asparagus patch keeps sprouting and then freezing and then resprouting and then freezing again. The enormous pile of cordwood I stacked last fall is almost gone: soon I’ll be burning the twiggy orchard prunings for heat. Buds are swelling optimistically on my plum and apricot trees, but if they open now while the bees are still huddled forlornly in their sheltering hives and the wintry air is empty of insect life, the blooms will go unpollinated and the trees won’t bear fruit this summer. Arctic winds are rattling my windows today and seeping into my not-especially-weathertight house, creating chilly drafts and unwarmable corners.
Earlier this week I got clobbered by that bug that’s going around. Luckily I got the Express version: from sore throat, fever, sinuses in full attack-and-revolt mode and energy levels somewhere around “Roadkill,” to coughing-my-lungs-up-but-otherwise-feeling-fine-again in only four days. In better weather my next phase of recovery would be lying out in the warm sunshine and letting the last of the crud bake out of me, but alas, this time it it clearly not to be.
Punxsutawney Phil, your six weeks are almost up. It is time for balmy blue-skied mornings and bees buzzing contentedly around fragrant sunwarmed blossoms. It’s time for fresh young seedlings in their warm garden beds and the translucent green shimmer of new leaves on the trees and the scent of early honeysuckle drifting through my open bedroom windows.
Next week would be good. This week would be better. How about tomorrow, would tomorrow work? A little warmth, less wind, no more frosts…these do not seem like unreasonable requests.
I’m begging you, Winter, move on. Go crash on Australia’s couch. It’s Spring’s turn.