In my previous post, I noted the imminent arrival of the crocus. However, as I suggested, perhaps I shouldn't be too impatient. All in good time.
This shoulder season of winter into spring does have its own attractions. The passing of winter does not possess the same wistfulness quotient as the passing of summer into autumn or of autumn into winter. Yet, it is a time whose vanishing beauties cannot help but awaken a feeling of regret.
For instance, the sight of bare branches against the sky can be as lovely as the threshing and unresting castles (thank you, Philip Larkin) of spring and summer. I will miss them.
A gray day and quiet,
With slow clouds of gray,
And in dull air a cloud that falls, falls,
The naked and stiff branches
Of oak, elm, thorn,
In the cold light are like men aged and
Only a gray sky,
Grass, trees, grass again,
And all the air a cloud that drips, drips,
Lovely the lonely
Bare trees and green grass --
Lovelier now the last hours of slow winter
John Freeman, Memories of Childhood and Other Poems (1919).