Winter endures, an old coat thrown over the shoulders of my city. Outdoors, everything is monochromatic. Nothing shines brightly: put on a red coat, and somehow it fades in the foggy light of late winter.
But spirits are rising, nonetheless, with these warmer, wet days. We wipe the fog from our glassy eyes and greet others on the park path or the neighborhood sidewalk. Children who have been cooped up countless days run to the yard, and we can hardly believe how they’ve grown this winter.
This is the blank slate before the dark banks of spring, before musty tang of volunteer tomatoes, before crocus and Dutchman’s breeches. All of that life is buried so deep we wonder if green earth is just a collective dream, and we hope to soon fall into that dream, after our long sleep in the cold.