“Spring is a promise in the closed fist of a long winter . . .”
Lifted from a poem by Luci Shaw, these words frame my thinking on this blustery day when the promises I made to myself and to God back in January about healthy choices and better habits have begun to sputter out for lack of oxygen; when no one even remembers what the groundhog saw or didn’t see.
Here in Maine, March 2o, the first day of spring, is just another number on the calendar, and so until winter opens its fist on the promise of spring, I’m sticking close to some promises of a more reliable sort.
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