At least once a week, I’m asked why I get out of bed when I don’t have to.
I want to answer, because I’m not a slug, but am always diplomatic and say, it’s simply a grace to be up first thing in the morning.
What kind of hostess would I be if I wasn’t awake to greet Spring who, believe it or not, is about to land after already sending in her diplomats.
Daffodils and forsythia act as footmen, lining the edge of the park like a stitched yellow hem.
Tulips, a tad tipsy, sway in the wind, while irises ever so proper wait patiently like ladies maids.
Just saw two squirrels in flagrante delicto, Latin for, caught in the act. If that’s not a sign she’s coming, then I don’t know what is.
Mustn’t forget the trees stoically standing like naked show girls waiting to don their leafy costumes.
Suddenly the Park will resemble Versailles as Spring, dressed like Marie Antionette, but keeping her head, presides over her first lavish banquet of the season.
So, why do I get up?