Spring had officially come to my front garden. 

The air felt fresh as if the earth had been cleansed with the melting snow. It had been an uneventful few months indoors during the winter, spent doing little more than reading and sleeping. Now winter had finally ended, the bitter snow now fading like a distant memory.

In the first week after the heavy frost I put on a winter jacket, for it was still quite cool, and went outside to sample the fresh air. 

My front porch was bare, coated with a layer of melted and dried salt. I made a note to hose it down when the weather was nicer, that way it would be clean and ready for flower pots. I had in mind some lilac pansies or bright red geraniums.

Steps down from the porch led to the familiar slate stone pathway, no longer blanketed by a snowfall. It was strange to see the contrast between the pristine cleanliness of the white snow and the uneven clumps of faded brown mulch. One might think it was dirty, that pathways should've been well kept and grid-shaped.

I wasn’t much for keeping the path completely in order, since that was too much work for one person alone. If I still lived with my parents it might be different, but when one lives alone you have to decide what’s worth putting effort into and what can be put on the backburner.

A cool gust of wind passed by, quite at odds with the warmth of the sunlight blaring down from above. I shivered, pulling the hood over my head. I shouldn’t stay out for too long; there was a warm cup of tea waiting for me inside. But I couldn’t retreat just yet; there was so much to see in this garden.

Stepping off the porch and onto the slate path I breathed in the smell of the outdoors. It smelled like damp wood and dirt; stale, cold, and desolate. It wasn’t much to look at right now, but any seasoned gardener would know that it’s not what you see in a post-winter garden, but what potential it has for the spring.

When I got to the middle of the plot I stooped down next to a mound of mulch. Despite my shivering fingers, I sifted through to find the new sprouts I’d been waiting for. Finally, a small cluster of green shoots came into view, practically screaming for the daylight, but weren't quite tall enough yet to reach the sky.

Smiling to myself, I parted the mulch, ignoring the slick mud sneaking under my fingernails. These sprouts were like my babies, which always brought a sense of pride when they grew and flowered.

Once the sprouts were uncovered, I turned my attention to the tall evergreen tree at the end of the lot facing the road. It offered privacy to my house all year round, though it was meant to be a miniature tree, so unfortunately its days were numbered.

What drew my attention now lay beneath the tree among its roots, where a number of oak leaves had blown in from next door. It was under this tree where the crocus grew. I loved their pretty colours that blossomed in the mornings.

I sifted through the dead leaves, finding tiny heads of crocus shoots. If memory served me right the ones right next to the evergreen were a pale violet streaked with white. The ones close to the road were a deep violet with an even deeper violet centre. The white ones were the closest to the path, like reminders of winter, but also of life that spring hailed.

Overhead in the evergreen a couple of grackles cried harshly. I couldn’t see them from where I stood, but I knew their calls. The pretty black birds with iridescent blue heads were among the few signs of spring my parents had taught me to look for. 

I stayed out a few minutes more to listen to their calls. There was a flutter of wings as three of them burst out from the evergreen. They must’ve been warning each other that I was there.

My nose began to ache from the cold and I sniffed. I suppose it was time to go back indoors; that cup of tea wasn’t getting any warmer. I hurried back to my house and shut the door behind me. 

My cup of tea still sat on the counter in the kitchen, still warm. I removed my coat and took a long sip of tea. The warmth of the indoors made my skin burn a little, and I felt my cheeks flush.

I took my tea to the front room and gazed out the window. I could’ve just observed the garden from inside, but then I wouldn’t have seen the new flowers until later after they’d grown. I wouldn’t have felt the cool air of spring or smelled the scents of the earth and sky. I wouldn’t have heard the grackles very well, either.

Early spring is the best time to search for new life. While it’s not the most colourful of times, it is nonetheless important. It’s a reaffirmation of the seasonal cycle, an assurance that winter isn’t forever. People say spring is hope, life, and joy, and they’re right. Whether you’re a gardener or not there’s something amazing in welcoming spring.

The thought of it all brought a smile to my face.

When I looked out into the garden from my window it felt like I was removed from that welcoming, like I was on the sidelines of a movie, a bystander to all the action. Going out into the garden allowed me to be part of that cycle. 

Winter might keep you indoors, but spring encourages you to live again. It makes the seasons feel real again, as if it were waking you from a long sleep.