I had hoped spring would chase winter’s gloom into memory, but it hasn’t yet. Instead there are all these photos of hunger and snow, dating back to October.

Along with hunger and snow, this winter brought weeks of numbing cold.

I was glad I had left the bird houses hanging because I saw chickadees retreating into them at nightfall.

It’s not that winter was completely cheerless. The yard had a few winter blooms, and there were certainly days of sunshine.

But I’m ready for spring. Real spring, with hours on end of warmth and nest building and bird song.

I can’t be the only one who is fretful and impatient. Maybe that’s why it seems as if spring is embarrassed to be arriving so late. Instead of rushing in with thunder and rain-scented gusts, spring is edging into the yard like a guilty ticket holder who overslept and missed the opening scene. Bees are sluggish, the irises and pear tree bloomed while I wasn’t looking, and the house stays chilly despite bright sunshine and open windows.

I suppose I’ll be complaining about the heat, before too long, and wishing for a cool draft in the house. Because summer always follows, and fall after it. And then there will come a day, sometime in early September, when I will wish for winter. But for now all of my wishes are focused on spring.