Technically it’s spring, but in reality it feels like a preamble. A mysterious pre-season gap yielding a glimpse of better things to come. The oak trees haven’t leafed out, though the red buds and bradford pears look majestic. The backyard is reflecting the diversity one would expect from living in a bird sanctuary; woodpeckers, cardinals, wrens, tufted titmouse, juncos and others. The red tail hawk’s nest should be visible another month, until the trees leaf out.

The lawnvarious miniature organic growths are transforming into lush shades of green. The earth is saturated with moisture and the temperature teases of possible days in short sleeves and sunglasses. However, the single potted impatiens I nursed through the winter months, me of brown thumbs, has promptly died because my husband placed it outdoors prematurely. Two gorgeous days in a row, and the eager beaver is convinced that mother nature wouldn’t possibly betray our trust now…of course he probably wouldn’t place as much faith in her if had his own period to deal contend with. His heart was in the right place, and now the plant’s rightful place will be the compost bin.

I’m not really bitter about the plant, mostly amused. She of brown thumbs and terrible nurturing instincts, as if I could be anyone else?

I’m floating between blah and whatever. By no means is it debilitating, intoxicating, or boring, but it lacks the feeling of purpose. So I will return to the scribblings of my todo list, inconsequential as the tasks might be, until I forget purpose and simply become.