Francis and I took a walk in the bitter cold and looked for pussy willow. None. It is a grey, breezy day. The kind of chill that makes one go find the wood stove upon returning indoors. No spring in sight.
Everything is on the brink, though, like the last minute before the ice lets go. Eventually the desire and timing will have applied enough pressure to burst the bonds of winter. A tiny bit of warmth would do the trick. Suddenly nothing will be held back. The buds will fatten quickly and the bulbs underground will hear the message , stir, and thrust up the first wick tongues of green.
For now we are content with reading and indoor seed planting.
Stone House Scribblings 
