I’m looking out my window at a blanket of sleet that fell last night, wondering if we have shifted into a Game of Thrones universe, where winters are counted in years. I’m so tired of complaining about the weather, but I don’t seem to be able to stop, either. I’m starting to take it personally. In the last couple of weeks, the birds had begun nesting, and the bulbs have been blooming around the yard. The winter weather alert on my phone Saturday afternoon felt like a slap in the face.
So when the ice started raining down yesterday, I took up arms. Kitchen scissors, to be precise. I threw on my hooded parka, grabbed a bucket, and marched outside to liberate every last one of the daffodil blooms from the oppressor.
Do you hear the people sing?