I should not be able to go weeding on a bright February morning. The frost should be hard, a bug-and-blight-killing cold, and the drainage trough in the alley should shimmer with thin plates of translucent ice.
Instead, I have daffodils coming up in the front yard, and the bulbs I’m supposed to be chilling outside to be forced in March are already thinking about bolting outside.
[These are not statements of blame, just frustration. There are so many other forms of strangeness and uncertainty going around my life at the moment that it would have been nice to have something like the cycles of the year to rely upon.]