At dawn, on this day rumored to be our last on earth, the vineyard was shrouded in dense fog.

As I stood outside the wine barn and faced east toward the vines, the sun – almost unexpectedly – rose quickly and flooded the world around me with light.  The fog then dissipated before my eyes, leaving only traces of vapor rising from the rain-soaked fence and trellis posts.  Spring, in my mind anyway, was finally here.

That is not to say there haven’t been other signs:  the crocus and tulips have given way to heirloom iris in the cottage garden, as seen below, and the grape vines awoke in April with a burst of green.  Even the spring rites of Little League, First Holy Communion, and hay fever are upon us.

Heirloom Iris

But I hadn’t fully embraced spring until first light this morning.  Perhaps this explains the three-month silence since our last Mount Salem dispatch:  I’ve been waiting, and waiting, for spring.  But I can wait no longer, come hell or high water.