... I posted this:
The official heralds of Spring. The crocuses, the daffodils are waiting for that inevitable last snow before really making their move to bloom. The witch hazel, having shocked the grey landscape for the past few weeks, fades back to make way for the more overt forsythia. The ground softens and a few blades of new green disturb enough earth to freshen the atmosphere with a whisper: "Every morning will smell like this." And soon, an evening will smell like steaks on the grill, saltmarsh, and beer. Best wishes.
They say as you get older, you tend to repeat yourself.