Struggling in the dark space of worrying about tomorrow; an anxious place too small to cuss a cat, I awaken to the slightly disturbing sound of late February rains…the ice flows in chunks out of gutters and down to the frosted grass. Will the edge of the roof jam up and leak? It did that a couple of years ago and there remain two delicately shaped brown spots on the ceiling. It was a half hearted attempt at leakage…just enough to remind us of who and of what is in charge.

The old strands, the tired spirit of spring is resting out there, somewhere. This is the teasing thaw of February and March is soon upon us. The longest month of the year…31 days of ‘will it rain? Will it snow, sleet, thaw, flood or ice?’ Some brave robins flit in and about and their numbers will soon expand. One morning they spend inordinate amounts of time and energy scurrying around the large tree by the porch…then three mornings in a row, they are gone and the tree stands silent.

After strong coffee and rain watching, some music serves purpose and various versions of Amazing Grace and idyllic Irish tunes soon pour out over the kitchen. March is upon us in sound, if not in exact date. The light in the window begins its slow transformation…from damp greying to more hints of gold and yellow and something akin to sage. Even for a bit, I catch glimpses of it on the glass pane…a surge mid morning, before everything sinks back down in wet fog.

‘I feel so Irish, now…I do, I do!’ he calls out as he heads down the stairs. He sees me in the living room and tips his head back laughing. ‘But I’m not! I’m not!’ and he keeps laughing.

I hand him a thick mug of freshly brewed coffee. ‘You’re just jealous that we tell better jokes than you do!’ I retort. He laughs again. ‘Yes, you do. But we’re still going to Spain first before we make any trip to Ireland’. He takes a swig and sits down to watch the rain. ‘Oh sure’ I concede and look out of the glass, now shimmering again in sage as the damp outside powers forward in a fleeting surge. ‘Oh yes, indeed’. And…the glass winks back at me.

The same ship, the same ocean, the same fierce winds…only the height and measure of the sails differ…’who bids the mighty ocean deep, its own appointed limits keep…’