|Afternoon light in my garden|
|These flowered through winter into spring|
The seasons' difference, as the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,
Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile.
(As You Like It, 2.1.12-16)
|Snowdrops insisting on their earlu presenc, always come first.|
I am longing for some sun and some heat.
Yesterday I dashed out to get the papers and in the sleety rain and the raw wind I was a miserable, cold soul.
I came inside and sat on a long sofa by the fire, turned on a powerful spotlight and read a book from my pile of must-reads. (Adele Geras' Facing the Light)
Warming up. I pulled out a notebook and wrote a list of all the things I have to do this spring, I stopped at fifteen and thought I must try to whittle it down.
I pulled out my drafting book and pored over my sketches for the forthcoming book. I wondered whether it should be a novella. This literary form has been much on my mind lately.
Then I looked outside saw the dark afternoon light. \My heart sank..
So I went outside and my eye settled on the primulas which - against all odds - have flowered through this damp chill season.
And I knelt down to see the snowdrops insisting on struggling through the detritus of a garden winter.
Hope, then ...