It snowed yesterday.  In May of all months.

It wasn't a big snow, with fat, blustery flakes and a thick carpet of white velvet on the ground.  It was more of a quick, dirty snow that melted as soon as it hit the ground.  Still, your basil plant was not happy, nor your tomatoes who sat in the corner of your patio shaking in the cold, wishing they could pull their little yellow flowers back in their buds for safe keeping.

Even your halfhearted attempt at going out for your morning walk was quickly squashed by the wind whipping around your home, pushing you back indoors.  What happened to spring?  Where was your gorgeous morning filled with bird song and coffee on your patio?  Where was the sunlight streaming into your apartment in the afternoon, coating everything in a magical honey glaze?

You got a day more at home in winter instead: a dark, hushed morning, followed by an afternoon tucked safely inside your house, feeling more like snuggling on the couch and drinking tea than letting as much of the outdoors in as you could.  Even your plants stayed inside.  You hauled them in one by one, reviving them with the warmth of the house and your tender words until your writing space looked more like an indoor garden than a place for prose (though who is to say which is the plant and which is the story? Both take warmth and time to grow).  You went to bed wondering if your spring would even come back.

The next morning you awoke to the sound of your loud little finches and the sun kissing your cheeks.  Spring was back, the snow was gone.  You could once again enjoy the simple pleasures of the season.  You returned your plants to their proper place on the patio.  You opened the doors to your home to let the light and air in.  You drank coffee on the patio.  Winter was gone.  And all was well.