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It happened again. No, not another school shooting—Something more profound, despite months of near-drought hardening the soil, intent upon imprisoning the emergence of all growth.

There was a reprieve. Days of dripping rain began juicing the soil and softening thirsty fissures. Faint hues of green patchworked lawns. Buds swelled, enhancing the tips of shrubs and trees. Even more wetness penetrated parched roots of bulbs planted in late autumn. Indeed, this quickening would not be stopped.

And today’s sunshine has energized the solitary gold crocus blooming in my flowerbed, one that I had not planted, and one that has given wiggle-room to my spirit for many springs.

Such is our hope in the greening Power that restores life, within and without. With the winter’s bluster waning, let us give thanks …

Saturated earth stretches, turns cartwheels. Gold crocuses strut their stuff.

Green-fire sizzles beneath stubbled lawns.

Thorny lilac buds split their seams in laughter.

Velvety moss creeps along creek bottoms.

Worrisome ants zoom across patios.

Swollen-breasted robins preen in the sun.

Bird-trills jostle pre-dawn stillness.

Winds nudge recalcitrant leaves from pin oaks.

March sun toasts bare arms on swings and jungle jims.

Strollers gentle their little ones.


Around us and within us, greening plummets ahead. There’s no stopping Her.




“It’s only winterbite,” my gardener friend assured me, handing me several mottled leaves from the Christmas Hollys we’d planted last spring in my side yard. Her windblown cheeks, her bulky sweatshirts and jeans, smudged from previous work, bespoke her authority tending gardens. She brightened and leaned over. “See the buds along these branches beneath other stressed leaves? Once the earth warms up, they’ll push them off and form new leaves.”

Like the Christmas Hollys, I, too, suffer from winterbite. So weary of wearing long underwear and multiple layers of heavy clothing, so bone-chilled by arctic winds, so leery of inaccurate weather forecasts, so sun-deprived, so tired of basement walks.

Like everyone, I yearn for the warming sun to quicken my budding greenness with murmuring pastels: pinks, raspberry, peach, rose …



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