January was pretty wild around here, weather-wise. We had more snow in three weeks than we've had in three years. But now things are warming up. It's about 50 degrees out; the air feels soft, like silk against your cheek, and a little balmy. The yuletide camellias I've been waiting for since November are opening all over the bush now, bright red and yellow buttons of color against the house.
It's warmish for this time of year, and the snows of January are melting, but it hasn't all gone yet. On the north side of the house, where it stays shady most of the time, there are still several inches holding on tenaciously. But everywhere is the sound of water dripping, running, rivuleting down and down, joining trickles that become streams that become rivers and finally, reservoirs.
The snowman Jake and I made is only a shadow of his former self. I can't bring myself to retrieve the scarf and hat just yet, though. February will bring more weather; so will March. I'm being mindful, looking for the beauty of the thaw, and thankful for the break and the unseasonable, gentle and welcome warmth in mid-winter.