Forget the snowdrops, crocus or early-riser narcissus. I am unimpressed with all the baby bunnies, redwing blackbirds and fish-bait tadpoles. Lengthening days and the dreaded daylight savings bore me to tears.
No, the REAL sign of spring is the freshening of the chive beard.
If you look closely at the upper mustache of the photo, the twisted tendrils of alliumy goodness are emerging. To me, that is a clear harbinger of Persephone newly returned from her spa resort in the underworld, of omelets using up the Easter egg sales and herby salads enjoyed on the patio during that delicate slip of time between frozen tush and cheap sunglasses.
And I can’t wait for those glorious punk spikes that bloom into my favorite shade of purple, with pungent perfume borrowed from its wild cousins after a night of carousing on the fresh-cut lawns of my youth.
Yes, spring is coming. Have mercy.