It will come …

Winter is not going gently this year. A false spring rain brought out a few wood frogs last week, and then the temperatures plunged and the sap stopped running. The ground in my yard is still hard, and any new shoots — be they wild leeks or daffodils — have barely broken through. With overnight temperatures in the teens, only the added hour of daylight makes it feel like the season is truly beginning to turn.Other than fans of spring skiing, I am hard-pressed to think of anyone who is glad that the cold weather remains with us. It is difficult to imagine that in less than a month I plan to till my vegetable garden and plant the first hardy crop of peas and greens. u u uMy single-tree, two-bucket sugar operation has produced three-quarters of a gallon of maple syrup thus far, and may reach a full gallon once I finish the last boil. For me, that is the signal for the next movements in the cycle of the seasons, for the great salamander migration and the first spring ephemeral wildflowers to emerge in the woodlands, but these events usually happen in April, and that is still weeks away.Things come in their own time, and though bulbs may be forced to bloom inside, one cannot rush the season. I will exhale once I hear that first chorus of spring peepers, because when that happens the balance will have tipped in favor of spring. That old fraud winter may throw a final tantrum or two, but I will hear it as a death rattle when I am sure that spring has the upper hand. Then I will beat out my blankets and hang them in the sun, and let the fresh air into my parched and dusty home. I will set my starter plants by the window and imagine the gardens where they will grow and thrive. I’ll toss a ball with my son, who is game to try baseball, and put the children’s bicycles back in order. Until then, as ice coats the trees and sunlight is pale and famine-thin, I wait in hope of the promised spring, ready to break free of dormancy and rejoice in the greening world around us. When I lived in southern Africa, I learned that in one local dialect, the name of the rain is, “It will come.” In these temperate lands, that is also the name of spring.Tim Abbott is program director of Housatonic Valley Association’s Litchfield Hills Greenprint. His blog is at greensleeves.typepad.com.