As of midnight this morning, in 43,200 minutes it will be spring. On Wednesday, 20 March at some absurdly early hour I suspect, at which time I'll already be awake I expect, the Vernal Equinox will occur and peace will guide the planet and love will steer the stars. Or not.
As friends of the Great White North know the months of the year are often little more than pages on the calendar so hopefully the early Spring the Groundhog promised will arrive in short order and our recent spate of snow and more snow (alternating with ice and windy weather) will be a distant memory that will grow fainter right up until the moment we tell a total stranger about what we've 'endured' and then stand back because tall tales aren't just the purview of Paul Bunyon and what's its name.
Ouch. You deserve better than that, but good luck getting it, at least around here. Besides, as the days lengthen a little bit every day even the bad puns and jokes get a bit easier to take. All the way through the dog days of summer when we complain about the heat as if the snows of February were on Kilimanjaro and never even happened. And then someone offers to go to the store and buy a new rope with which to hang ourselves but we complain about how the new ones are always too scratchy. Couldn't live like that.