We decided today we could see the tops of some of the trees in the woods outside the nursing home window turning red. Beginning buds. Finally. And, please, nobody nip them in their buddingness. This winter has seemed to go on and on and on. Clara said as March finally drew to a close that it had felt as if it were always going to be March. I agreed.

There is not rhyme nor reason to it, and no one is really looking forward to hot sidewalks and humidity, but these months have seemed extraordinarily drab.  The woods have stood as sticks stuck in the ground, without even one evergreen among them. But now we have buds. I feel like we should go out with sparkling grape juice, raise our glasses and toast: This bud’s for you.

I’ll leave it at that – okay, just break my typing fingers now . . . before I promise (falsely) to turn over a new leaf.