It happens the same way every year, and always at about this time.
A yearning, a longing, a memory of something that has yet to happen, but somehow has happened all before.
The dream of summer.
When the snow gets all dirty and grimy, and a few nights tease with the promise of a thaw, I think of summer and make tentative plans in my head. Right now, I’m envisioning a background of terra-cotta, with accents of colorful tiles, and plantings of penstemon to attract the hummingbirds and butterflies that make a backyard so enchanting.
The flower catalogs will begin arriving soon, further whetting the appetite and stoking the stuff of dreams. It’s not too early to indulge in such anticipation. It’s all coming.
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