spring snow

I wake to a gentle pitter-patter on the rooftop, almost inaudible. I go out onto the balcony to inspect. The rain that was supposed to come today arrived this morning instead as snow. Not a raging snow-storm nor a heavy dump. Spring snow, snow without purpose, not driven, not sticking, just dancing in the air.

In the neighbours garden below, the daffodils hang their heads forlornly. "Too early," they must be thinking. "We emerged from our winter slumber far too early this year."

At first glance, winter seems to be hanging on longer than usual this year. But then I look more closely. This isn't serious mid-winter snow, but rather ephemeral spring snow. As we watch the great fat flakes tumble from the slate grey sky, they settle only momentarily on the green boughs and yellow flowers before dissolving into nothingnesses. And I realise the reason for our delight. Spring snow is just as beguiling as the snow of the bleak mid-winter, except now we have only the beauty and none of it's sting.

For me, the flurries outside my window are also welcome this weekend. I embrace the excuse to stay inside, with an internal focus. I've got no good reason to go out into the cold, and instead can stay in to rest and recharge. I've got a good book on the go, a knitting project to begin and a roaring fire to keep me company.