Snow falls this morning like a whisper, light but dense. Soft piles are forming over muddy patches in the street as if trying to erase the tire tracks from SUVs that are out and about.

Across the street, birds are dive bombing between the trees, swooping themselves back up to land on a branch as if playing a game to see who can be the most daring. I imagine the chirps outside my window being the audience cheering them on. Or maybe egging them on.

Finally, a snow day on a Saturday!

The world seems to stop in our little town when even a light blanket of flakes covers the streets and sidewalks, yet in actuality life is only paused here. This means that we work from home, continually filling up the coffee pot and typing away at new documents or listening in on conference calls. But a weekend snow day is bliss. That coffee pot still brews on, yet more blankets and lazy conversations and late breakfasts take place.

It’s the blue jays against the cardinals now, their brightly colored wings standing out against the backdrop of white flakes as they frolic back and forth, chasing each other and hopping around on high branches.

I confess, I am weary of winter, with bitter wind and the constant danger of moisture turning to ice. The road treatment trucks drove by multiple times again last night, streaming flashing yellow lights into our home and coating our streets with what they hope to be the solution to slick conditions. I am now in the stage where I am annoyed with bundling up in heavy layers, and I often try to get away with wearing a puffy vest instead of my long, heavy coat. I also often regret not wearing that coat, so my frustration simply grows.

Yet it’s only the end of February. Spring takes time to grow, and just like any other good thing, it is worth waiting for.

I’m almost certain the following poem was written just a couple of weeks after this time of year, when I was a senior in college and trying to create final pieces for my honors thesis project. We are close, dear friends. Don’t give up hope, whether your winter struggle is literal or metaphorical.

“You Will Revive Me Again”

“You who have made me see many troubles and calamities will revive me again: from the depths of the earth you will bring me up again.” –Psalm 71:20

My steps crunch dead leaves in early spring.
The sun starts to warm the earth,
but winter’s remnants linger.

The first green shoots break through dirt,
and daffodils raise their trumpets to the sun.