It's the time of year when it looks like nothing is growing. The evergreens are green, but most everything else has taken on a bleached out quality. Dead grasses, covered with snow and ice and then uncovered, seem tired and pale. Greedy for every scrap of warmth from the sun and for it's strengthening light, their roots gather themselves, wake up, and drink.
When I'm out walking I'm thinking something like Where is it Where is it. And I think what I mean is the proof of it all beginning again. The new shoots and stretching roots and little brave green things creeping up and forward and out. The mayflowers are budding. Tightly and still half asleep.
I've been forcing forsythia indoors and Axel helps me mist it. I like to make spring happen inside before it happens outside.
And Eva re-potted her cyclamen from Christmas, and its red stems seemed happy in the sun.