Some people wait with bated breath and glad hearts for those first snow drops; for the blush of purple from crocus and bluebells; for the yellow of daffodils mirroring a warming sun.
Not me. Not as much as the others, anyway.
What I wait for are the little flags of garlic pushing up through their sodden blanket of old straw. I can only barely remember planting them, with the flimsiest of prayers that they make it through the winter, back in the fall. But they did. They always do. And that first glimpse of green astir in the muck is when I know for sure.
Spring. It’s not so far away, now.