Every year about this time, one of our local nurseries does this…
…plunks some happy flowers into winter barrels, along with some birch limbs and stems of pussy willow.
I call them clown flowers. They always make me smile big and make me think of Disneyland.
Today, I wiggled out of my yoga pants, before the fine hairs on my skin took root, and crawled into some jeans and a hoodie. I needed to get out of the house in the worst way. The worst way.
I needed a nursery fix.
I needed to buy a pot or ten of daffodils.
I needed some clown flowers.
The snow is almost gone. There’s just an Illinois-shaped patch left about half the size of the patio. I squish and squelch around it in my garden boots.
There’s a patch of crocus peeking out as it huddles against the foundation of the house — Is it secret? Is it safe? [Name that movie.]
There are signs of spring.
Let’s just go wild and crazy and do a twofer for Single Shot Monday.
We can all use the extra smile.
Don’t it feel good?