I'm looking hard for signs of spring around here – and I'm not finding many. Everything still looks awfully beige, and muddy. I'm desperate for something green, something fresh, something tender.
On my walk this morning, I crossed Dover Road and searched among the wet, brown leaves for signs of tiny grape hyacinths or the first push of daffodils. But nothing.
I hopped over the creek and followed it for a bit, looking for green cress or maybe some ramps. But nothing.
Along the banks I searched for the earliest wildflowers: snowdrops, bluebells, trout lilies or wood violets. Nothing.
I headed back in to report to Ed that spring evidently just wasn't coming to Farm Dover. But there, in my kitchen, spring had sprung. Right in front of my eyes were beautiful fruit blossoms. You see, a couple of weeks ago I pruned our orchard trees and rather than composting the cut branches, I brought them in and placed them in a huge pitcher filled with warm water. This morning, they decided to burst into bloom. I don't know if they are apple blossoms, pear blossoms, or peach blossoms. I don't care. They are beautiful. A sure sign of spring. Desperation over.