Lately, I've been feeling that if I wake up to one more "winter wonderland," I am going to lose it. Why are those dreamy flakes so beautiful in December and so unbearable in March? Even the sight of my boys' footprints across the lawn hardly emotes a sentimental sigh. I am seriously over winter at this point. Really, really waiting for that "out like a lamb" part.
But the promise of Spring is still here, even if Spring Herself is waiting to make her grand entrance. Even if that promise lies in some cut daffodils blooming on the windowsill, not in green buds poking from the ground. It's coming. I am sure of it. We're waiting little lamb.