February Light

The early morning sunlight is striking the walls of the house in places it hasn't touched for months. When I got up today, my eye was drawn to a doorknob that was lit up, surrounded by tree shadows on the wall. The earth has turned ever so slightly and has a different relationship with the sun. As I walked down the stairs, I noticed the pussy willows that David brought me for Valentine's Day were also lit up, a patch of sun had settled in our dark, north facing front hall. It didn't last long there, but that simple shaft of light told me better than any meteorologist's equipment that winter is on the wane, spring will come.

We are still surrounded by snow and ice. Every step I take is a potential down fall. But the air smells different. I've seen robins, squirrels, and a loud woodpecker hard at it, finding something to eat in the depths of a dead tree. Our chirping cardinal waits for the right moment to make a run for it, flying over to the feeder that hangs from the eave of the back porch. His ever loyal (and less flashy) mate, waits deeper in the rhododendrum for her moment.

I'm blinded now as the light comes into my eyes, creating shadows on my computer. Time to boil the water to make my tea. Songwriter Gordon Bok writes, "the earth is always turning toward the morning." I find that very reassuring.



For the eagle eyes among you, yes, forsythia is in with the pussy willows. Just hoping I can trick it into an early bloom of yellow!