Winter won’t let go.
Seems like snow most every day. This morning, no more than a soft dusting across meadow and hillside, fine white lace along the still bare branches of the Aspen and the needles of the Blue Spruce. Temperatures are only a fraction below freezing. My peas still have not come up. I wonder now if they will. Or are they no more than a gift to the soil, a trial run, and will I start anew in another week when the forecast promises more sun.
Winter, but a memory, lingering, holding on, grasping to what was, what could have been. My last one here. I find myself caught between holding on and letting go.
A snowball tossed from the morning snow onto bare ground where the sun has already touched, only to melt before mid day. As if it never were.