I’ve been talking about the weather all month. With friends and family. And with prospective clients at work. And with strangers walking by me in the grocery store. Suffice it to say: I’m ready for a change in seasons.

We’re two days away from April. Still a giant pile of snow in my driveway. Still temperatures in the 40s. Still the genuine possibility of more snow.  But the truth is that if I force myself to look at the bright side, I must admit that there are signs of spring. Not the signs that you’d be seeing when the azaleas burst in Charleston, but hopeful signs nonetheless.

John and I discovered the top quarter inch of daffodils poking through last year’s mulch in the front yard. Crocuses are beginning to make their appearances. The moss under the rosebushes in the back yard has turned green.

The snow pile in the driveway has melted enough to expose chunks of lawn, buried since they were scraped up by the plow three months ago. John is shooting baskets outside (even though it still requires a parka and gloves).

Of course, the days are getting longer. But what I love more is that the sun, when it’s out, is sunnier. It’s stronger. It’s yellower. You can feel the warmth again, even on a cold day. (This is true all winter down south, but not in Vermont.) Michael’s noticing it, too. He’s frequently stretched out in a bright patch instead of huddling under the oven.

I’m still cold enough that wearing flip flops seems like science fiction. But we’re moving in the right direction.