March

I've always liked March, as a month.  I have no delusions about it, especially in Wisconsin.  It comes in like a lion and goes out like a pissed-off lion.  But there is enough green, or the promise of green, that I always feel like March is the month I turn the corner.  February is the end of the line; the terminal station of Winter's death march.  It is cold, and snowy, and dreary, and did I mention cold?  

But March is, well, hopeful.  The birds are singing in the morning, even with snow still on the ground.  I saw a rabbit out in the pre-dawn light this morning, having his morning breakfast.  March is windy, and cold, and damp, but the damp is the coming of Spring, so I'll put up with it.  The whole miserable lot actually makes me feel nostalgic, possibly for the northern European homes of my ancestors (central Ireland or the Rhine Valley, take your pick).  

March is the month you can get out, and re-acquaint yourself with your environment.  For the past three months (or more), you've been traveling from home, to car or bus, to work, and back again.  But there will be days, not many, but some, that you can get outside, and feel the sun and the breeze, and be glad of it, not repelled by it.  March has smells, while the months beforehand, don't.  

Not everyone likes March.  Victoria thinks it is mostly a cruel joke, promising Spring while delivering more of Winter.  I get that.  But in March, for the first time in months, I can feel like the glass is half-full, and that's enough.