March has been living up to its name so far – bitter winds that cut right through you – the bright sunshine fooling you into thinking it is warm, come outside it says – believe me, it is not warm. The spring garden is struggling to show itself – bulbs that emerged a few weeks ago are in a kind of stasis, neither growing or dying. Just being. Is it always like this – do I look every year the same way and find nothing is growing – nothing is willing to bloom until it can be sure that there will be more warm weather. March is such a tease. I am thankful for the Crocus that bloom regardless, thank you for brightening up the containers.
As I walk I search the hedgerows for signs of life – I find clusters of stray snowdrops and crocus, a few catkins and pussy willow – but no real signs that spring is on its way – am I always this anxious that spring won’t return when it should.
“March came in that winter like the meekest and mildest of lambs, bringing days that were crisp and golden and tingling, each followed by a frosty pink twilight which gradually lost itself in an elfland of moonshine.”
― L.M. Montgomery
Spring won't let me stay in this house any longer! I must get out and breathe the air deeply again. - Gustav Mahler
As so I fear the wait must continue – my wishing for spring won’t make it come any sooner – now that winter draws to a close I feel the need for the warmth of the sun on my skin once more. To be able to wander outside and see a colourful garden – to potter in the greenhouse sowing seed of this year’s flowers and vegetables – this is what I want now. But still the March winds rage on – this transitional time is the hardest to bear – the sun shines with a promise that teases and fools us into thinking we can work out of doors – but no, icy winds tell us that we are not quite there yet.
“It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.” —Charles Dickens