To be sure, the violet and pale purple crocuses, and the blue dwarf iris, did look charming in a white landscape, with their little caps of white. And the afternoon not only saw the snow melt, but the scilly grown enough that its blue flowers are out.
In the gray day with more typical showers, the forest outside is red on every bough as the maple buds swell toward being flowers.
Here and there, surprising every time, a bush stand in full, pink bloom. In one lake, the ducks, in their browns, are paddling about, their ripples mrking them out. In other, ducks in black and white stand out starkly.
The snow flies, fine as dust, outside the window. Sometimes it thickens to make substantial flakes, but every one melts without accumulating, just being the Winter That Will Not Die.
Scillia bloomed in a rush on a lawn filling it with its blue star-like flowers in a great mass.
I go out the door a little early, and a good thing too, for the plants I planted on the weekend lay sprawled here and there in the garden, their root balls all exposed with their tiny white threads. Some calloused animal had decided turned earth meant food and went digging in the garden. I scramble to bury again, and between it and washing my hands, barely make it to the car in time to make it to work on time.
A gray and rainy day, but the forest is warm with color: brown bark, little saplings still clinging to their still golden leaves, maples alight with red blossoms. Later, a marsh scene with all the branches of brush turning red, and the still dead marsh grass all goldn
Down in the depths of the garden, sheltered from wind, daffodils bloom.
Beneath the pale gray, almost white, sky, the maples stand in pale gray, almost white, bark and red blossoms.