Turn of the seasons

Today marks the Vernal Equinox – an occasion of perfect celestial alignment – distinguished by a day of light and dark of equal length. The sun rose this morning at 7:43, precisely in the east – and will set 12 hours later, precisely in the west. A few minutes after noon today, the sun crossed the celestial equator, signaling the official turn of the seasons. Winter be banished; Spring be welcomed!

T. S. Eliot claims April as the cruelest month; I beg to differ. I nominate March. For it is this month that has me groggy from hibernation – desperately seeking sunshine and time outside. Instead, I'm greeted with only short snatches of sunshine, followed by long stretches of grey skies, freezing drizzle, cold winds and random snow showers.

Heavy wet snow is expected tonight in Shelby County. It could be worse: in Brooklyn, Mary is bracing for the fourth nor'easter in less than three weeks, and Jack in Berlin is looking to overnight lows in the teens.

I'm itching to be outside all day: planting my spring garden, inspecting our trees for breaks of dormancy, picking early daffodils and greeting the returning birds of Farm Dover. Instead, I find myself pulling on another sweater, wishing that Ed would build a fire, that a Netflix disc will arrive in the day's mail, or that I can crawl under the covers well before 10 p.m.

On my brief ventures out, I do find signs that spring is arriving, albeit slowly. I spot a mama woodcock sitting camouflaged atop her four spotted eggs, the red shoots of my peonies unfurl, daffodils hold off blooming by staying insulated in drifts of snow, and Grandmommy's sedum plants send up tiny succulent rosettes.

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I'm not the only one wishing to hurry up spring's full arrival. My good neighbor, dear friend, and creative genius, Sandy, turned her talents as a weaver into a masterpiece as she waited for a warmup. This past week she wove a beautiful bird-seed basket from grasses, branches and vines that she collected from her next-door-to-us farm.

Once woven, she brought it over as a gift for us to fill with bird seed/suet and hang in the tulip tree in our bee garden. It's made from wisteria, honeysuckle vine, raffia, broom corn, red dogwood stems, and Japanese bittersweet, with bits of Shetland wool tucked into the cracks for birds to use for nests.

It's amazing – a work of fine art – almost too lovely to hang in the elements. But hang it we will, and know that the birds will enjoy it as much as we love admiring it. Thank you, Sandy. Happy Spring. Happy Equinox.