Just as Spring temperatures were on the rise, and the promise of days spent outside in the garden tantalized our spirits, a March snowfall has blanketed the landscape.
Bitterly cold wind, the kind not fitting for man or beast.
The songbirds, once again silenced.
Out of the cloud-folds of her garment shaken,
Over the woodlands, brown and bare
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
~~By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.~~