Summer Longing in the Making

Wearing comfortable sweats and curled up on the sofa before a warming fire, I watch the falling snow. It's been coming down since before 6:15 a.m. when I dropped Lori off at the market to meet her ride. Already the deck was thoroughly blanketed in white, and the lawn, at least what I could see of it from the porchlight glow, was white as well.

And it is April 12. The belly-swollen robins must be scratching their heads. As if to remind us that we are not in charge -- that our wishes are not commands -- winter has returned. The forecasters are assuring us that this will be a brief visit-- 70-degrees is the mid-week prediction -- but for now it is chilly, wet, windy and white. I think back with a smile to that first glimpse of flake -- early December, or was it November? -- and how exciting it felt. I love snow; indeed, winter has been one of the attractions of this home for this southern boy who seldom experienced it. But what I'm now confirming is that it was less the winter, itself, than the contrasting seasons it helped set apart.

And I'm ready now for the contrast. I have known for years now that there is no more beautiful spring than the one which follows a bitter winter. Bitter this winter has been. I'm ready now for that beautiful spring. I can wait, of course. I have little choice. But my imagination is alive with the colors forthcoming, and the singing I hear from intrepid birds even now only makes the longing deeper.

Just to galvanize my patience, I think ahead to those late summer days when the temperature, like a sweater caught on a splinter, will almost certainly and humidly hang at triple digits, leaving me desperate for a cooling breeze. I'll look back wistfully on this mid-April snow...

...and laugh.