It’s spring on the island. Hard to believe, I understand: it’s in the 40s right now, on this last day of April, and there are gray skies overhead. Tomorrow, cold rain forecasted. The Farmer’s Almanac was right about this winter: a long one, thicker than my finger width was the black band on the wooly bear caterpillars this fall. I’ve just barely resisted the urge to plant my window boxes full of the cheerful pansy faces I see at the market. New England wisdom warns not to do it before Mother’s Day, and I’ve learned to heed New England wisdom (or not, but at my own peril). I’m missing Spring, like a favorite aunt who arrives for a long visit, replete with floral patterns, perfume, and warmth.
When will She ever get here? I’ve put out the deck furniture for her. I’ve swept my front porch. I’m ready for Her, and still I wait. I begin to doubt.
But, recently, I’ve seen her calling cards:
Last week: a fat bumblebee, hazarding through azalea branches, albeit bare ones. Then, the gambol of twin white lambs on my neighbor’s farm.
A few days ago: two robins flying in and out of my junipers, taking turns on the nest.
This morning: hopeful birdsong and skylight at dawn.
And this evening: the lengthening of the day past dinnertime.
Spring’s a bit of faith rewarded, isn’t it?