It shouldn’t have arrived yet, but it has, though maybe it’ll abandon us again before the month’s done: Spring. It comes, bearing gifts, and crocus (croci?) to nestle in the still-wintery beds. The mockingbirds are, this morning, rejoicing: the sap is running in the maple that graces the lefthand corner of our yard.
It seems absurd to sit here in front of this screen in the face of this shy excess.
I cut my teeth on spring, varietal Georgian. In fact, if spring in this neck of the woods were, truly, a varietal (not that I know jack about wine), it would have to be a prosecco or that Portuguese sort known as Vinho Verde.
Spring in the bit of earth I call home is a green wine, effervescent, astringent. It goes down easy. There are always things to be done, but me, I’m off to take a heady early-morning sip.