Will you still be here tomorrow?

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away.”
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

(images of the ornamental quince bushes trying in vain to bloom / Julie Cook / 2014)

With warming sun and temperate rains, the tiny calling cards of a desperate Spring, fighting to make its presence known, eagerly appear.
Ever so stealthy and secret, an army of blooms rise upward as if magically appearing from barren wood, all preparing to do battle against the unseen enemy.

We have naively relaxed our guard as we’ve shed coats and gloves, noting how marvelous a warming sun feels against our now pasty dry white and ashy brown skin. We forget the calendar reads February as thoughts of spring wardrobes dance around our heads.
Are those sandals suddenly appearing on those blindingly white feet of yours?

63 degrees feels like heaven to skin that has hunkered down inside of sweaters and coats for almost 4 long frigid months.
Pull out the plants which have been hibernating in sheds and basements!
Till the garden!
Prune the scraggly shrubbery!
The seed packets have arrived ready for planting.
There’s talk of Easter in the air. . .

But wait.
We have not yet survived our 40 days of fasting and reflection for a Lenten season.
We have not yet had to beware the Ides of March.
Were we not just recalling our loves on Valentine’s Day?
Did not the groundhog just sound the ominous warning of 6 more weeks?
Oh get behind me you specter of falsehood and empty promises.

For tomorrow the cold northwest winds will return with rumors of snow flakes dancing through the grey clouds.
The battle wages on.
Freezing air will blow across a changing landscape with a vengeful glee, gaily sucking those waning warming images from our vision.
The coats, the gloves, the scarves, so hastily banished to the recesses of closets, must be summoned to duty once more.
For Old Man Winter has not moved on but has merely been napping.

So rest well this last night my tiny splashes of color.
For tomorrow you will sadly wither, giving up the ghost in a losing battle
You will turn from today’s deep mauves and bright chartreuse back to the sickeningly shades of browns and grey we had grown wearily accustomed to. . .oh but for another day dear Spring.