For three days now, our trees have been coated with ice. Even yesterday's noon sunshine did no more than to lightly melt the surface so that now, on this cold morning, tiny icicles tremble on every twig and needle. It's as if some giant has sprinkled the forest with handful after handful of shiny porcupine quills.

The week moves along apace. I ought to be starting a few onion and leek seeds, but I haven't yet. I don't feel at all spring-like, though the sunlight does. I feel like a person who trudges up and down the icy paths, trying not to break her ankle in the frozen sinkholes, hoping that the hay and the firewood hold out for a few more weeks and that the chicken house won't fill up with sleety floodwater. March is the cruelest month.