A friend tells me that her daffodils are several inches above ground now. Of course she lives a few hundred miles south of me. But still, it’s possible that mine might be sprouting, too.
I walk to the back corner where a patch of them grows wild every year. All I find is matted leaves, wall to wall. I’ll keep watch.
On my way back to the house I stop to say hello to the sentinel I call the Eldest Daughter, a spruce I count among my close and dearly loved companions. Wordlessly, I ask if spring is coming.
Wordlessly, she answers, showing me how her arms are open in welcome, how an overflow of fresh sap is oozing onto her bark. I pat her in thanks.
Always she bestows her gentle lessons in patience.
But I think that, secretly, she likes my anticipation, too.