I am still laid up and limited in my activities by my surgery a week ago, but all about me is pushing hungrily towards spring.

You know, that first burst of spring-ish weather that brings people out in shorts and tank tops, on bicycles and into the water... that first heedless claiming of the potential for spring to come.

It isn't spring. We *know* it will SNOW again. The ice is on the lake. But we do it anyway. With abandon. With delight uncharacteristic.

Every year. Bubbles and rubber boots, skipping ropes, rakes and bulbs. Young and old we force ourselves on spring with such fervour that it retreats to come in again more quietly, less noticeably, a little shyly, a few weeks later.

And we all sheepishly put our mitts and our restraint back on for those few more weeks to greet real spring with more decorum. But we still go to bed with the window open, the sidewalk chalk on the porch and the rake leaning against the shed. We dream of trilliums and rainy days, soil under our nails and colour.

For winter is long. And everything within us awakens to spring.