Another frigid April morning, and the pansies on our back deck look like they are done with this weather – 78 degrees on Tuesday, 29 degrees this morning – and inches of snow predicted for the end of the week. They droop, their leaves frost-bitten, the promise of spring apparently revoked.
Everyone looks tired and hopeless when I arrive at work. Colleagues walk through hallways muttering about the relentless winter that just refuses to go away. Students keep their ears plugged with music no one near them can hear or interrupt. My ride in the elevator is frigid as the cold air outside. Not one person speaks or looks up from the floor.
The morning news has offered nothing to lift our weary spirits, no promise of warm regard for the welfare of humanity. For months now we have discerned hardly a glimmer of hope lighting the horizon.
But still, outside these dreary rooms and oppressive ruminations, the daffodils raise their golden faces to the sun. The squirrels scamper across lawns, up trees, jumping from branch to branch chasing unchaste companions ready to procreate. Goldfinches have lost their winter drab and compete with the daffadils for the yellow ribbon, best in show. Buds burst open on flowering trees along city avenues, their faith in future grandeur ultimately unshaken by the frosty night they have just endured.
I tell myself that spring always wins no matter how cold and resilient the winter blast. The ruby throated hummingbirds will soon come back from Mexico. The wall of winter will not separate us forever. The life- warming rythyms that connect love and beauty and fruitful harvests will prevail.
Even the news will likely get better if we can hold on long enough.
Isn’t it time to prepare our gardens for kinder and warmer days?
Written in response to the Daily Post’s one word prompt: frigid