I’m not sure when I fell in love with spring, but I have a feeling it began at birth. I’m an April baby, so for all of my life, I anticipated the season with excitement.
One day, you’re on vacation in South Florida, gazing at the pattern of a banana leaf sunlit from behind (above) — and the next, you’re bundled up against the wind chill of Long Island. After arriving home, I went through some random Florida photos and then walked around the yard on Long Island to make a comparison. Can you guess which photos came from which zone?
What’s up with Mother Nature? Has she forgotten to look at the calendar? It’s January, and she should be full of bitterness and coldness and frigid wickedness. Instead, it seems Mother Nature is having a bit of hot flash, teasing us with a taste of a spring fling.
That’s why I’m more inclined to envision Mother Nature as Scarlett O’Hara, flitting and flirting her way through the folks at a Twelve Oaks barbecue, while I am one of the admiring suitors gathered around her. My heart beats with every flutter of her eyelashes. My pulse races with each giggle of her southern feminine charm. The temptation is overwhelming. I so badly want to reach out and grab my rake to clean out the flower beds, to let my fingers sift through the soil, to plant seeds and to nurture them to full growth — and I want to do all of this without the protection of work gloves. I am hungry to be in the garden.