Winter just fights to hold on, and does not go gently. Even a mild winter, like this one, with only the rarest of harsh, raw days, refuses to retire in favor of spring.
The ground is still hard and grey. Frozen from the year before. Life has not broken through, reasserting itself.
Even so, I relax a bit, in anticipation, of the season to come. The buds, the warmth, the mud.
Spring mud has a scent, a fertile musk of life’s promise yet to be kept.
Seeded and thick with anticipation.