Last night I had a dream of a single forsythia branch. The branch was rife with tiny slivers of yellow trying to escape the tight, fat buds of their confines. The tiny flowers desperately reaching out to the lengthening day to herald the arrival of Spring.
Soon thereafter I awoke with a sense of sadness to yet another morning of below freezing temperatures. I realized the forsythia buds have yet to expose their brilliant yellow. Later in the day I drove through a neighborhood typically rich in forsythia bushes and confirmed that though the calendar tells us it's now Spring, the weather tells us otherwise.
Later, as I walked around the perimeter of our backyard, I discovered our Pussy Willow shrub ripe with the fuzzy promises of warmer temperatures. With that, I smiled.
