I perhaps spoke to soon when I said that sun had returned to New York.
Although I believe fervently that the weather as a topic of conversation is one of the more tiresome options out there, to be relied upon only as a last resort if you find yourself in an impossibly dull and awkward exchange, this past weekend's mercurial weather system was quite a thing to see (and talk about). Mad gusts of wind and pelting rain kept me indoors for most of the day, commiserating with various friends about our shared desire to avoid crossing any thresholds that led to to the outdoors.
I suppose this means that it is the beginning of the "cruel" season, in the way that T.S. Eliot described April, that is. Bouts of warmth and sun bring with them optimism and joy for the glorious time of year that one (falsely) believes to be upon us, only to be dashed by violent storms and incessant rain, reminding us pitilessly that intensely colored days and balmy nights are not nearly as close at hand as we think.
But I take comfort in the idea that we all are on the brink of spring. Liberty of London is filling Target with flower bedecked merchandise for heavens sake, and the pop up store in Bryant Park was completely sold out less than two days after it had opened (much to my dismay as I had trekked up there in the rain in heels ready to purchase some spring-like prints!). People feel that we are upon it, animals feel it, and nature feels it. Every bit of my (very damp) trip to the Greenmarket in Union Square reassured me of this fact.
The daffodils, tight and closed to the world when I bought them, are just beginning to open in sunshine hued bursts.
And the peach tree branches that I bought and then plunked in my new stoneware planter, which was not large enough to accommodate any of my many windowsill pots but stands in quite happily as a vase, are covered in tight little "almost" buds,
primed and ready to explode in a deliciously pink blossom.
The ramps and peonies (my two personal harbingers of spring) cannot be far behind!