There’s something to these weeks of waiting for spring. They test your faith in the process of renewal. The peas planted on St. Patrick’s Day shrivel with the plummeting temperatures, or get washed out by heavy rains. The afternoon light is a dim, pale yellow, a shadow of the robust hue of August. At our windowsills, we wait, anxious, our trowels, fishing rods, harrows, baseball gloves in hand, waiting. Spring can’t take much longer to arrive.