14 March 2024 (pulling on)

pulling on

a heavier sweater

the white of snowdrops

29 February 2024 (willing)

willing suspension of disbelief snowdrops

25 March 2023 (wan)

wan sunlight . . .

shoveling snow

off the snowdrops

8 March 2022 (snowdrops)

snowdrops . . .

the sopping school field

fills with geese

19 March 2021 (no snow)

the first day

the snow is gone

snowdrops

2 April 2019 (snowdrops)

last of the snow

raking last fall’s leaves

to find snowdrops

April 4: Drooping snowdrops

After snowfall

the snowdrops look flattened.

Flock of juncos peck the lawn.

Posted with Blogsy

April 11: Morning phoebe

Waking to the phoebe,
reminded that spring's arrival
wasn't a dream.

These snowdrops are also a good reminder that spring is here!

March 31: Easter flowers

In the front yard, petite snowdrop-like flowers have punched their way through dead leaves in their vernal fervor to reach sunlight. I tore away several leaves that were still whole except for the little hole through which the surprisingly strong flower bud made its escape to the surface--driven what the great poet Dylan Thomas described as "the force that through the green fuse drives the flower."

We all feel it, that urge,
to turn our faces to vernal sunlight,
reawakened.

April 4: Surprises

This rather dreary afternoon the precipitation has shifted from rain to snow to rain to snow again. As I work at my desk, I periodically check to see what it's doing now. In the time it took me to type those two sentences, what were distinct snowflakes have dissolved into a near-invisible drizzle. I never know what I'm going to see each time I look up.

Earlier, a small bit of motion caught my eye--the first phoebe of spring perched on a branch in the back yard, wagging its tail. A few minutes later, more motion. Although I was alone in the house, I exclaimed, "Whoa!" out loud and ran for the camera... as a flock of six or seven turkeys strutted through the yard. A big hen stopped not ten feet from the window, and I swear she looked right at me, unperturbed, brazen.

Later, as I was heading out to my car, I did another double-take. There, in a barely exposed portion of my flower bed, a small cluster of snowdrops blooms, beautiful little white flowers glowing in the mud. Where did they come from? We've lived here six years and I've never seen them before. I never planted them. What a gift!

Stopped me in my tracks:
snowdrops risen from cold mud
as wet snow still falls.

February 24: Snowdrops

Photo by David Paloch via Wikipedia Commons.

I didn't see the flowers myself, but a woman I was visiting today said that snowdrops were already blooming in the shelter of her house. She also said that she'd discovered little Johnny-jump-ups still blooming under a thin crust of snow. Outside her window, a continuous stream of chickadees buzzed her bird feeder and cracked open seeds in the shelter of a rain-darkened apple tree. Rain washed the windows. The chill drear of the weather made the rocking chair set by her old cast-iron cookstove feel like the most perfect place in the world to be at that moment.

Her son had been out on the lake on his four-wheeler earlier that day, and she'd been very anxious for him--our recent warm, wet weather has made the ice rotten and unpredictable in spots. But now he was back on land, safe for the day. I noticed some ice fishermen standing out on the ice in the pouring rain, waiting for their flags to pop up. Not quite sure what the fun is in that. Maybe it was made exciting by the tinge of danger offered by the wide strip of water that had opened up along the shore's edge.

One of my neighbors around the corner tells me that she too has snowdrops blooming near her mailbox, and that come spring she'll divide some to share with me so that next spring I too can enjoy the wonder of flowers blooming while there's still snow on the ground.

Snowdrops in the mud.
Last fishermen on the lake
brave the rotten ice.