My father has long since passed but every spring I remember him saying "Spring has sprung, the grass is riz, I wonder where the posies is."
They are coming up, finally.
Today is a particularly lovely day. All the windows are open, there is a sweet breeze and the sun is glorious.
To me it has always seemed a supreme act of faith to plant a bulb. In the fall they are covered in dried papery skin and if you cut one of them open there is nothing but a creamy white inside with no apparant potential. They are innocuous bits of shrivelled nothing.
You bury them in the cold nearly freezing earth and forget about them, and yet you beleive with all your heart not only will they grow and bloom but there will be a spring and you will be there to see it. Another spring will come the earth will continue to turn and all will be as it always has been.
We plant and we hope for longer days and the sun to rise again and life to continue. No wonder the ancients celebrated the lengthening days! and we still do it today when we turn our faces to the warming spring sun and rejoice in it.