This week I noticed that everything is soft. I find myself touching things again–hands free from cold and gloves. The false turkey tails bend gently. The moss is pliable and yielding, not crisp and crunchy. The ground is damp and pulls my feet in with each step, and my steps make indentations on the ground. The water in the ponds and pools seems to bounce with freedom; little wavelets sparkle with dazzles of sunlight. While walking in neighborhoods, I find so many blue flowers, like creeping speedwell, a carpet of miniature blue flowers springy with scalloped green leaves, or Siberian squill, with its slender leaves and stem holding a blue star-shaped bloom.
On Sunday morning, I made a pilgrimage to a place where the hepatica comes up next to a rushing stream every spring. After a long walk, I cautiously approached: would they be up? They were. Lovely clumps of thick lobe shaped leaves surrounding clusters of thin hairy stems with nodding heads of white and purple. Here and there, a bold flower would have its head up to the gray chilly sky.