My eyes are starved for color. The world is awash in gray and brown–faded, tired, and dirty. The lingering snow is gray on gray. The woods are monochromatic soldiers in shades of taupe and ash. The patches of grass showing through on the frozen edges are a matted mousy brown. The only respite in all this dreary monotony is the muted greens of the wild mountain laurel and the furled rhododendrons drooping in the cold.
My eyes yearn for the first faint blush of swollen buds on the trees where the whole mountain side is a watercolor; the hint of yellow Forsythia flowers as they test the weather before turning the world golden; the early hardy dancing daffodils, and the peek of yellow and purple crocus in the greening lawn.
My eyes eagerly seek among the trees and brushes for the bright plumage of returning birds. I long to drink in the brilliant orange of the Oriole; to bask in the sunshine of a Yellow Warbler, to squint from the blinding whiteness of a Common Merganser.
February is the month where I can see the light at the end of the tunnel of winter. I am balking at the color diet I am on. I am ready. But nature is still subdued, resting, waiting.
I do not wait well.