I was in the grocery buying eggs yesterday. The man in the meat department said his polite work obligated hello. I replied the same.
"You think Spring is ever going to get here?" he asked.

I admit, I don't much like the way mother nature toys with us, 58 degrees one day only to plunge t o 27 the next, and dump ice, twenty inches of snow, or a wintry mix. My beloved had hoped the weather would be kind enough that he could get on the bike during his much needed but a few weeks too early Spring break. It looks pretty bleak.
The weather men promised a sunny 60 degree day mid-week only to keep bumping it back farther and farther off.

"It won't be long," I tell myself. My eyes caught the promising, golden fuzzy aura growing on the forsythia bushes. Soon they'll be popping little yellow flowers and we will be warming our sun-deprived skins in the heat of the roiling Great Orb.
I can hardy wait. And this is what I'll think of when I fry breakfast eggs while looking out the kitchen window.