In the Air

Early Spring by Rainer Maria Rilke

Harshness vanished. A sudden softness
has replaced the meadows' wintry grey.
Little rivulets of water changed
their singing accents. Tendernesses,

hesitantly, reach toward the earth
from space, and country lanes are showing
these unexpected subtle risings
that find expression in the empty trees.

Today was the kind of day you'd cast as March first in a movie, all bold sunshine and dripping icicles and forty degrees of hopefulness. This afternoon, we strapped on bike helmets and scooted across the bare sidewalks, biked around the block, left our snowpants inside for once. The girls "planted a garden," digging in the quickly-melting snow with plastic rakes and shovels, telling me all about the flowers and vegetables they would grow, while Heidi and I talked garden strategy for this spring (fewer peppers, more tomatoes, maybe pumpkins). We burst back in the door after five o'clock and scrambled to get dinner going. Our faces smelled like fresh air. Our boots left muddy prints on the steps. Back from a wonderful weekend in Chicago full of art, shopping, beer, cousins, friends, and food, it felt just right.