First Day of Spring


First day of spring, and true to New England form, it snows. Frost, as the name might imply, understood the wily ways of winter. “Playing Possum”, he called it in his poem: “Two Tramps in Mud Time”. Apparently finished, only to open a wary eye as you turn your back and utter an early sigh of relief. Winter seems to shake its icy fist in defiance of the inevitable… and our fondest hopes.
But snow, with its own “crystal teeth”, comes with no ill will or crafty cunning. By this time of year, it will melt away clean, and soon, almost as quickly as it appeared. It is the mud beneath that really clings.
Snow is, perhaps, the purest of solid elements. You can feel winter’s fine forming forces in thin air, if you have a nose for snow. These almost-tangible artisans take hold of air’s moisture and, with it, make their art visible in infinite variations on water’s six-sided theme. Expressed en masse, they cascade out of the silver sky to veil roof and road, field and forest floor, in their holy garment of Easter white, for a few more hours. No harm done; It is still early for spring. Tomorrow will melt.
It is only the pain of impatience that imagines malice in the final flurries of a waning winter.


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