You know that feeling, this time of year, when you step out into the still dark garden, into the early morning, after the frost has gone, and the air tingles with tentative birdsong, and you pause and look to one another, searching in the deep blue shadows for the others surprise.
The air is warm! And you both smile and move off the step and into the day.
And all day your eyes are on the skies, your ears are pricked, your nose may even twitch, your bones just know.
Spring is somewhere, hidden still, shy and not quite ready, but heralded by every feathered harbinger that cannot keep their tongue, by the teasing air that startles your skin, sets it aquiver, by the sun that seems caught in the trembling reeds, caught in the evening that stays a little longer.
And even though you know the cold is not done with us, and the frost may well be there tomorrow, still, you have Sense-ed the Spring.
We are firmly inside the door of the new year. Shh, pause and listen for a spell. We do not look over our shoulder as we hear the quiet click behind us.
Instead we gather around us those dear ones that mean something to us, we pull tight the lovely threads that have slipped and loosened, carefully, with sure and steady fingers we weave them back into the fabric that is Us. And there they lie once more, caught fast, held tight, blending brightly and perfectly, just where they always were.
We have spent the last week catching up with family and friends, establishing new bonds, reaffirming old ones, attempting to stay warm.
Tonight, the house is quiet, little heads already slumber on fragrant pillows, sleep staving off the inevitability of school tomorrow.
After almost a month off, between snow and holidays, we brace ourselves for dawn.
Fie!! Fie!! Oh, most dastardly drudge! We do not like thee, no we do NOT!!
We DO like pajama days and lie-ins, and games late into the night,
and snowmen and endless, lazy meals with dearlings, (and a glass of wine or two along with it,)
and nowhere in particular to be, and a long neglected clock that may or may not still be correct,
and pancake mornings that seem to go on and on and on forever,
and many a moonlit dash through the sparkling garden, down the dark, dark path,
into the welcome glow, for tea or games or chat,
and the journeys together to join hands with family,
like the needle that pulls the thread, tracing back over each stitch yet again,
and the gathering of happiness that closes in around us,