Outside my window the sky is a wonderful shade of blue. The bark and branches of all the trees are glowing orange with the warmth of the morning sun. Yet, despite what it looks like, it is not warm. In fact, today broke the low temperature set in 1899. It is fifteen degrees.
Easter has come and gone. Eggs have been hidden and found. Hymns of hope and faith have been sung. But the signs of resurrection and life remain dormant.
The few flowers that courageously followed the calendar have been punished for their excitement. Their short lives have been snuffed out by the bitterness of a winter working overtime.
So I wait.
I let the longings for new life sit uncomfortably in my belly.
The desire for warmth, for color, even for soggy earthwormy mornings churns in my being as I look at the extended forecast.