Out Like a Lamb

It’s the last day of March, called in the old tongue Hreth-monath. The sun is shining, warm and bright. Too bright. Too warm, by my reckoning. While everyone around me has bemoaned the long, horrific winter, it is the coming summer months I dread. I’m missing winter already. It suits me better, physically and spiritually.

The saving grace of spring are its storms, thunderous and brash, but I’ve no love for what comes after. My soul sings when autumn comes and the green things brown with cold’s cruel touch.

I’ve much to accomplish over spring and summer. Its searing sting will present a challenge, as ever, but I will see it through.

Fare thee well, birthmonth. You will be missed.