Spring is trying to take hold here, but it's still cold. Winter isn't done yet: Spring is still spaghetti that won't stick to the wall. It resists. When she's all the way here, spring will give al dente, tiny shoots of asparagus and berries will give to the touch. We're not there yet.
I say this knowing I'm not talking about real winter at all, compared to permafrost and fat snowflakes and icicles. It never gets white here and already the days are warming, the kind of days where you invent reasons to drive around town, singing to the radio, arm propped on the window like when you smoked. What did the groundhog say? I can't remember, but all he knows is fear so I refuse to listen to him anyway. The big difference in the seasons (even here in the American South where the distinction is subtle) is that winter bites, spring wants to be bitten.
Tiny green fists of buds are taking over the ends of trees. Don't worry. They look helpless but they aren't. Don't worry.
I am growing some violets, a sweet birthday present, though I was warned they might not make it. Their roots were roughed up in the transfer. They are a little leggy, reaching and reaching as though they hate the dirt they need to claim. They crane their floppy heads to the sky on skinny legs, but I think they'll take. I like their earnestness. I tuck them in from the cold like a baby. I think they are edible, that I could sugar them and eat them with tea, but I won't.
Lately I know my eyes narrow and I feel so, so stuck. I worry the water is running cold and it will never change. It always does.