Last weekend’s surprise snow. Greg and I and our weekend guest and very dear friend Jeff cozy at the dining room table, playing a game, as we always do. It lasted long enough to take the requisite photo of Pike’s Peak looking dreamy.
I didn’t used to have a favorite season, each bringing their own sense of beauty and wonder. After returning to Colorado spoiled by sixteen green Portland winters, I now declare it is SPRING. Winters here, and in Pennsylvania, are no greater in length, and certainly warmer than the bone chill of Pacific Northwest rain, but feel longer for the noticeable absence of color. There are some evergreens, yes, and the dazzling azure of sky, but the ground and bare trees and hundred feet of fence are so very brown. I know it is partially the fact that our garden is so young, with trees only starting what I hope to be long lives. But, still.
So when the tiny bud of that pasque flower pushed from the soil, my heart leapt, for there is only more and more and more to come. The orange and pink of tulip, yellow of daffodil, purple of hyacinth, to the peonies and red birds in a tree of summer and poppies of fall. That verdant quilt dotted with the rainbow.
Forty-seven!
Fun with a new torch. I made rice crispy treats with homemade marshmallows, topped them with a bit of the fluff, and then flame roasted them. Our little cousins said they were beautiful and the best thing ever. SO soft!
