While We Wait

I was ready and prepared to announce spring's arrival.  I saw the signs.  We rejoiced in our first (and only, so far) brown eggs from the thawing chickens,






the season's first syrup shot through with sunlight,

and a balmy wind from the south.

But then bitter wind returned, banshee-wailing through the trees and our house's cracks all day and all night.  This week, we've eaten soup, thick with chicken, beans, and grains, swimming in broth simmered all day on the stovetop,

corned beef, baked all day to heat the cold side of the house, and cabbage roasted with olive oil and balsamic.

We've enjoyed the next morning's hush, with the surprise of quiet flakes falling thick on the land.

To offset the quiet images above, we've also had days of stir-crazy children and short-tempered Abigail, piles of clutter still only halfway sorted in the downstairs, and laundry, never-ending.  When spring comes, I'll be ready, but for now, I'm glad of these still spaces.