I don't care that there's snow on the ground and that more is predicted for tomorrow, I know what I saw this weekend, and I'm not backing down from thoughts of spring. I stepped out onto the front patio on Saturday night and basked in the glow of the super perigree moon, a rare sight that happens only every 18 years or so, when the moon is about 31,000 miles closer to Earth. On Saturday it was not only closer, but totally full, and about 14% bigger and 30% brighter than normal. It shed its monstrously beautiful silver light on me and I asked for its blessing, inspiration and guidance. Kooky? Perhaps. But that day, in honor of the equinox and this moon, G and I had already gone over to our new property in Forestburgh and had a little ceremony to bless the land and imbue it with good intentions. We have such high hopes; it felt good to say them out loud with the waterfall across the lake roaring in the distance and woodpeckers flitting high above in the trees.

I am not religious, but I do believe in the sacred power of nature. I love it, respect it and even fear it a bit. I suppose this makes me something of a pagan.On Sunday, the sun shone brightly and the air held that promise of spring as I ventured out for a look around the yard. A ring of snowdrops encircled the base of the river birch, their stems a brilliant jade. The chipmunks made their first appearance since fall, scampering about in a frenzy and gnawing on fresh shoots, desperate for an infusion of chlorophyll.

In the garden, I was surprised to already see signs of life. The lavender seems to have wintered over and is still soft and pliant. Unbeknownst to me, the sage has spent the entire winter making new leaves! And there were a few sprigs of mint already flourishing.

I will trust the wisdom of plants and remain optimistic about the arrival of spring. With it comes the delight of seeing old friends reappear, the excitement of planting and the daydream of the hammock.SPRING AND ALL by William Carlos Williams (1916)By the road to the contagious hospital
under the surge of the blue
mottled clouds driven from the
northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the
waste of broad, muddy fields
brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen
patches of standing water
the scattering of tall trees
All along the road the reddish
purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy
stuff of bushes and small trees
with dead, brown leaves under them
leafless vines—
Lifeless in appearance, sluggish
dazed spring approaches—
They enter the new world naked,
cold, uncertain of all
save that they enter. All about them
the cold, familiar wind—
Now the grass, tomorrow
the stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf
One by one objects are defined—
It quickens: clarity, outline of leaf
But now the stark dignity of
entrance—Still, the profound change
has come upon them: rooted they
grip down and begin to awaken