I would have turned back when the sleet hit my face on my traditional Easter constitutional but a stiff wind and a stiffer upper lip propelled me forward in an optimistic search for spring.
Two hours later I limped home, frozen right hand clutching my Twittering cell phone (#thegroundhoglied), post-brunch yoga pants soggy with snow and beloved mitten lost somewhere en route.
Spring in Wisconsin can be miraculous. It blows in swiftly on a breeze so fresh you have to pause for a moment to taste it. You close your eyes to let the sun warm your face and when you open them you notice, for the first time, the sweet tree buds, bright yellow daffodils and fresh green grass. It happens that fast.
What I learned yesterday on my stubborn tramp through town, though, is that you can’t go looking for spring. It has to find you and neither calendar date, nor length of day, nor crack of bat can hasten it.
Join me in a sadly necessary mug of hot cocoa as we peruse these postcards from the edge of spring, a tip toe through the
tulips mounds of dirty snow.
I saw this little guy as hanging out on the east side of our driveway. Look closely, our little ground hog is waving a white flag too! Basta!
Sadly, the only tulips I saw yesterday lived in this vase at my mom’s house. Note the icy view of Lake Winnebago. Brrrr.
- This was the view out the window during our Easter brunch. We were able to munch away, completely unconcerned about any impending swim suit season, so that was nice.
Despite an impressive number of tiny tracks through the snow under this playground, the place remained eerily quiet Easter Sunday afternoon.
Look closely at the bridge on the far side of this trestle. Two determined sun bathers caught some Easter rays.
Literally the only sign of spring I saw on the entire walk were these tender shoots….inches away from an unpleasant pile of poo…Coincidence?
Hard to say what is lonelier, this empty picnic table, or those two geese who didn’t get the memo that spring was going to be late this year.
Here’s a quick shot of the seasonally ironically named Pacific Street. Hats off to the Stichart family for the cheerful Easter display in the face of all that mounded snow.
…and then, as I rounded the corner and headed toward home, the sleet started again…Happy Easter! The Son has risen, but where’s the sun?