"Hope is the thing with feathers...

...that perches in the soul" and in the northeast it is thoughts of warm sun and crocuses and any color other than soiled-white that fires our icy and wearied imaginations.
Oh Spring...where are you?
   Every cold afternoon I walk through the snowful and soggy yard hunting for bulbs and fresh green shoots. For Peter and I, this spring will be extraordinarily exciting because we don't know what will be sprouting. What we do know is that the former owner of the house was an avid and Irish gardener.
   We have found the roses, some of which grow twenty feet into the trees.

These rosehips attract bluebirds

   We have found the grape which tangles itself relentlessly through the fence posts. We have been told by our lovely neighbor Patricia of the host of daffodils beneath one of the sugar maples.
  I have uncovered the tiny patches of bulbs which I hope will grow up to be grape hyacinths.

   Beneath one of the living room windows is a bush I pray is a quince and beside that imaginary quince is a beautiful and malignant wisteria.
   Among the moss I put down at the stone base of the house there are a few maybe-tulips forcing themselves through.

The moss we collected from the shed roof

   And beside our beautiful little shed poised here in its winter finery,

 is another pièce de résistance - a flowing and generous lilac.

Proactively added our own color to the landscape

      The only thing in the yard that has grown this winter is my tipi, which I hope will support sweet peas and morning glories in the early summer.

But first spring must come!