Despite what has been a mainly gloomy and wet week, I managed to get outside for a run one day. The rain has left the streets pooled and clogged with mud and winter detritus. The red-winged blackbirds, my March friends, were loud in the reeds and the sky overhead was changeable, one moment swollen and sullen, the next breaking with sudden and blinding sun. All of this made me feel, friends, that despite being in the teeth of winter for what feel like a long time, no winter, or freeze, or storm, or cloud, or desolation, can last forever. There is always hope and as that great wheel turns and turns, we shall have spring again.
And with that very solemn intro which does not at all match what will be a fairly fluffy post, here are a few recent pins to slake my thirst for the season ahead.
Believe it or not, I actually have two of these types of old lanterns in the basement. They’re so cool but I’ve never known exactly how to use them to their best advantage! Link here.

And here is the tutorial.

Similarly cute idea. I have been growing morning glories on a rusty old trellis on the east side of our house for a few years now and this would be a fun addition once they start filling out.

This is the general vision I have for the southwest corner of our yard, under our pine trees. I love hostas and ferns, and buy a few every spring to gradually fill in. I doubt we’ll ever have a water feature but I do want a nice stone birdbath for that space and the colorful birdhouse is sweet!

More gorgeous hostas.

*From the post title. The final line of this poem always feels so significant to me (probably also because it is the last line of Ariel, and this line leaves too much unsaid; her fate was coming fast to meet her), full of a mix of emotions as these tiny creatures are summoned forth again to rise with the spring, no matter what obstacles they face. Joy, despair, survival, fight, death, rebirth.
“Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas
Succeed in banking their fires
To enter another year?
What will they taste of, the Christmas roses?
The bees are flying. They taste the spring.” (Wintering, by Sylvia Plath)










