I step out the front door and into the sun – and I’m blasted by 30-degree winds. Should have checked the weather. So much for that walk in the woods.
I inspect my beloved lilac bush, always the first to burst, and it mocks me with its high-gloss buds wound up tight. From beneath my porch,a newly-roused woodchuck sniffs the frigid air, and we call a silent truce; neither of us is ready for our summer-long battle to begin. He retreats to his den.
The brown earth, despite its surface dampness, has no give. The robins peck, in search of worm-sicles, and I hear them wonder why they bothered to return.
Everything waits for that day – you know the one – when the birds serenade, the sun warms and the breeze carries life-giving sweetness. Windows swing open and jackets come off and, for that one perfect day, harmony reigns.
I used to say that, in Michigan, March is the longest month of the year. I was wrong. It’s April.