March is the cruelest month

Old Barn on 59A

Officially it's Spring.  But the snow keeps coming.  And by the looks of our Mudroom, it is more officially Mud Season.  Little muddy paw prints all over the black and white checkerboard floor. Multiple pairs of Wellies lined up.  And still, those bulky coats on the hook. Freezing cold.  It all speaks to this ineffable sadness which lays over the earth today. The tragedy in Japan, another war in Libya, and the death of  Hollywood's most beautiful icon.
But there is hope. On the hills I'm starting to see the faintest blush of red as the Maples begin to set buds.  And my crocuses are in bloom by the driveway. And the water has receded from the lake that was our pasture, to once again become an obedient brook. On a walk down to the potager today, the Gentleman and I noticed that the Rhubarb were beginning to push their bright red noses up through the earth.  So all is on schedule, and I'll just have to be patient.  Spring will happen any day now.