For lo, the winter has passed

Yesterday was the sort of day we have been waiting for, here in New England, and—let it be said—it was a day we have earned, after the winter we've had.

Yes, there was more snow in previous years, and there were colder winds in past seasons, and I recall a winter where I felt like I was a character from an Ice Age film.  But for some reason this most recent winter has left everyone I've spoken to in these parts feeling grumpy, exhausted, and yearning for a day like yesterday.

By midday it was sixty-two degrees, the sky was a soft blue and utterly cloudless and the breeze was invigorating.

Robins have been hopping about here and there, plying the earth for worms after the rain we had a few days ago. The squirrels have been up to their antics as well, chasing one another in dizzying circles up and down tree trunks.

Wherever I look there are swollen buds on the flowering trees and shrubs, just waiting to burst. The Witch Hazel is already in bloom, its fragile golden filaments a welcome burst of color in what has been, until recently, a barren landscape.

It was thirty two degrees on Wednesday night, but it didn't feel that cold.  Not after the sunny afternoon we'd had only hours earlier.  But, as they say, it's all relative.  Clear the streets and sidewalks of snow and ice, bring out the sun to coax green shoots from the earth, and then throw in cloudless skies and a nice spring breeze, and thirty two at night doesn't feel quite so bad.

In fact, I experienced an unexpected sensation yesterday evening.  I opened the French doors that lead from the dining room onto the verandah, something I rarely do in winter, and a soft rush of stifling warmth greeted me. All that day's sunlight and heat had been trapped within the glassed in space. I sat there for awhile, reveling in the closeness and in the sense that a new season had arrived in earnest.