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.

Clown Flowers.

Don’t it feel good?

Elen