A LACKADAISICAL DAY

This is shaping into one of those lackadaisical days here along the river. Which is really just a way of saying I'm in a lazy, loafing mood—feckless, sluggardly, indolent, good-for-nothing. Can't get into writing or yard work. Reading doesn't appeal. Taking a walk is out because of the temporarily bothersome knee. I've had three mugs of coffee since breakfast and still feel half-awake. 

I blame my mood on the weather. Currently it's 68 ˚F with scattered clouds—bright sun one minute, dark overcast the next. There's a serious front on the way bringing afternoon showers and thunderstorms, possible large hail, gusty winds. Tomorrow's high is predicted to only reach 39˚F, and we may have sleet and snow tonight. I need to take advantage of this nice weather while I can. 

Except…I'm all but useless, devoid of inspiration or energy, about as inert as one of the mid-river boulders. The day is washing over me and I'm just sitting here dull and dysfunctional. 

An hour ago I sauntered around the backside of the cottage, looking to see if I could spot one of the small queen snakes that have been appearing about the yard during the past week. I turned one up here yesterday, beneath a windrow of old sycamore leaves. No doubt these are members of the queen-snake clan who like to sun themselves on my riverside deck. I suspect recent high water displaced them from their winter hibernaculum in the rocky rubble of the streambank, forcing them to seek temporary shelter wherever they could find sufficient refuge—including nearby fluffy leafpiles. 

I saw no snakes, but I did take a few shots of the white crocus blooming nearby—delicate, several lightly veined in purple, almost seeming to glow with their own luminosity in the soft, dim light. 

So far, I confess—that pix and this post are the closest I've come to an accomplishment for the day….

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SIMPLE MAGIC

Time. Heat. Light.

How simple the formula. And all produced by a few hours of March sunshine.

Yet with these three ingredients comes something wondrous—a splash of color amid the brown leaves that instantly fills the eyes and warms the heart. A flower! Specifically, a purple crocus striped with white. Not just any crocus, mind you, but The Crocus—the premier bloom, the initial flower, the awaited first of its kind of the year.

Whether it's a daffodil or crocus, or something else. It's the first! Is there any garden flower more welcome, more anticipated? Nope, not in my book. There may be yellow winter aconites blooming up the road. Or white snowdrops in a neighbor's rock garden. But this fledgling crocus is special because it is yours—planted by your hand, grown in your soil, a gleaming spring-bright child of your loving labors. A gift of natural magic.

A vernal blessing which gladdens your heart.

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GREEN MESSENGERS

A thick overcast blankets the sky. A light drizzle has been falling since just after dawn. Though the thermometer outside my workroom window reads 41 degrees, the dim light and dampness makes it feel a dozen degrees colder. Indeed, according the local weather reports, snow is on the way along with a corresponding drop in temperatures. I suppose it is therefore odd that today—in spite of conditions—my mind is filled with thoughts of spring. Isn’t such thinking a bit premature? More fantasy than fact? Not at all! Why? Because yesterday I found certain proof of vernal forthcoming in a few green tips. They appeared overnight, as if by magic—a half-inch high already when I spotted them just after dawn, three-quarters of an inch by day’s end. They are located under my workroom window, on the southwest side of the cottage, within a foot of the house. A sunny location, protected from wind, and in soil perhaps a degree or two warmer than soil a yard distant—a slight microclimate courtesy of the thick limestone wall’s radiant heat. These emerald messengers are crocus, up from bulbs I planted the first autumn after moving to the riverside. I love crocus, and I put out a hundred of them in little patches around the property—along with daffodils, squills, and hyacinths. I added a similar number the following year, and a few more last fall. So far as I could determine from a quick search yesterday afternoon, the plants beneath the window are the first to poke up—scouts for the purple, yellow, and white assemblages to come. It isn’t unusual for crocus to begin blooming well before the official advent of spring. My mother, who was also a crocus fan, had many bulbs planted along the south wall of her house, and around the home’s front porch and steps area, which faced west. This latter location took the brunt of incoming weather. And yet, those front-yard crocus were the first to bloom, always. Most years they appeared in late-February; and most years their bright blooms endured at least two or three snows. Sometimes the flowers wilted permanently; more often, however, the damage—bad as it looked—was only temporary; given a day or two they’d spring upright and reopen, looking only slightly worse for wear. Crocus are as tough as they are jaunty. Will my plants jump-the-gun and bloom before winter’s worst is over? Maybe. If you believer the forecasters, we’re certainly going to have some snow over the next few days. But these first crocus aren’t that close to blooming yet, and I don’t think the cold will hurt their exposed tips. In the meantime, I’m now allowing myself to think green thoughts, to conjure up notions of spring—with new grass, birdsong, wildflowers, and fish eager to take my flies. If I need reassurance that this all isn’t just a premature dream, I can peer out the window at those little green fingers reaching for the sun. The crocus know spring is on the way…and I believe them!