Spring is the season of hope. You wake up and it might be rainy. Better, it could be a day with blazing sunshine. It could rain, hail, or snow. Or all three in the course of an hour. It could be windy and bitter cold, but not for long. The one sure thing about spring in the northwest is that it will be variable. Each day brings the promise that the next one will be a little longer and the weather will be a little better than the last.
In spring, things grow. My garden awakens; there are actually things to harvest. Daffodils, tulips, and lilacs bloom, trees come alive with tiny flowers. Plants unfurl new leaves; even the ubiquitous dark-green conifers shoot out new, light green needles at their tips.
And each month of spring promises more hours of daylight to explore, to wander, to enjoy the outdoors. Bring it on, I say.
Fall is the opposite. Shorter days, more chance of rain, more darkness, colder water, the end of the garden. I am baffled by people who say they love fall. Fall is the end. It signals the start of my confinement indoors or donning a raincoat and trying to keep warm in the damp air.
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