Two years ago I planted snowdrops in my backyard. Yesterday I caught sight of the first blooms. Most of the yard is still under snow, but in two places there is just enough melt for the flowers to unfold from the leaves. I'm very excited as I thought these bulbs were duds. Not a snowdrop appeared last spring; it seems they were saving themselves for this season. The catalog assured me they would eventually naturalize--that is, spread in clumps around the yard; and now I am back to daydreams of drifts of white flowers in the snow. 

I'm determined to plant arugula in the cold frame this weekend. Next weekend I'll be in Chicago, so now is the time, though I'll have to dig out a walkway for myself if I want to get close enough to water the seeds. The snow is receding from the big garden (by which I mean "big" garden; everything is proportionate in this tiny homestead), and I can see garlic shoots, green-onion shoots, chive shoots. Tulips, daffodils, and hyacinths are in leaf along the house foundation, but most of the flowerbeds are still heaped with snow.

I am itching to get started . . . even picking up sticks and pruning roses would be better than nothing, but there's no point until we get rid of more snow. 

Today I'll park myself at my desk again and crank out more pages of work. I've also got to do housework--bathrooms and floors and such. I've got to deal with the recycling and undergo my exercise class and wash sheets and and and and. For dinner I'll make chicken fricassee with olives and lemon, and baked polenta, and sautéed bok choi. And maybe I'll get a chance to moon over the poem drafts I worked on yesterday night. We had a beautiful group at the salon--ten writers, a universe of thoughts. It is exhilarating to be part of this enterprise.