The bulbs the kids and I planted are coming up and I forget what we planted, even though we wrote it down on stakes, they blew away. And that feels poetic: not knowing exactly, but knowing it'll be something good. Something fragrant you can put in a vase.
Be they tulips or allliums or hyacinths, I feel this way every spring. Like a pony losing in tufts its thick winter coat and looking shaggy I wander outside not knowing how many layers to dress in because it might snow, then again it might turn out tropical in the 60s and people will be throwing frisbees.
How do the cherry trees know what they're doing? I don't. The lady bugs get it. They've started crawling up my windowpanes, and the mice that threatened any open bag of cornmeal in our kitchen for months have taken their picnic outside. It must be the sun's angles. I notice the time we call "after school mellow" is more mellow. Everyone is cautiously optimistic, even the skateboard my son got for Christmas and I said was too dangerous now looks like fun.