April

This morning the world is etched in shades of gray and white. A cold fog drifts along the ground, muting the colors. The lawns are brown; in the woods old leaves mat the ground.

The snowdrops are still in bloom, unobtrusive, close to the ground, as if they’re still half-snow. They’re hard to see from a distance, though they’ve spread themselves in fat clumps under the bigger trees out back, and I can spot them from my study window if I know where to look.

Siberian squill have popped up all over the back yard, but they haven’t unfurled, so they don’t yet look like a blue carpet. The crocuses have bloomed and folded and have now collapsed under yesterday’s rain. They lie flat, pressed to the ground.

This Sunday is Palm Sunday, the beginning of Holy Week. In church we’ll sing hymns and wave palm leaves and ponder the mysteries of life and death. We’ll think about joy in the face of suffering and sacrifice. We’ll talk with each other at coffee hour after the worship service. It’s our own kind of clumping together and showing ourselves, a bit like the snowdrops.

Yesterday I saw daffodils in bloom.