In Like a Lion

I had almost forgotten among the new words and phrases I have been learning that some of the old ones that I learned as a child still fit. "March comes in like a lion and out like a lamb," we said when the cold winds of winter roared into our winter-weary ears and the snow landed on the daffodil buds. There might be a lamb-like day on March 1, but if so, before the week, the lion would rear its head.

We had here a splatter of snow and then a benign day, but last night, despite a soft breeze, the air had a cold bite to it. I dressed in an extra layer, heard the old shingles pain kick into gear, and did my best to ignore it on my way to stained glass class. When I came out, the air was still but crisp and cold, ice had etched itself like graffiti on my windscreen. With a start I remembered the plants still sitting in my car. Along with my weary self, I would have to trundle them indoors for safekeeping from this too sharp cold.

So three different heathers, London pride sitting contentedly in a tray, tiny Alpines destined for the rock garden, and miniature -leaved plants in pots waiting for the spring as eagerly as I am were toted into the attic at the rear of the house--certainly not warm enough to raise their expectations, but out of the worst of the night's chill.

And today came the proof of what I could feel on the wind last night: giant flakes of snow falling like an afterthought and then in earnest. Melting into the warmed earth except in the spots where their whiteness takes tentative hold. I know it won't last long. If it were November and this were the first snow, I could admire it.