April is the cruelest month.

So said T.S Eliot in The Wasteland. I'm not entirely sure what was his particular gripe was, but from where I sit, April 2011 has been the worst kind of seasonal tease, withholding Spring like a spoilt child. Too many times my Winter coat has gone optimistically into the closet, only to come right back out again to shield against the icy chill or the biting rain.

I've tried keeping in good spirtis, I've tried dressing inappropriately in the hope that she'd take pity. Pathetically, at the end of March, I even threw a 'first of the season' BBQ in our shady backyard, to try and summon the warm nights and balmy air in some sort of yuppie-pagan ritual. Still the rains and wind came at regular intervals.

This Saturday, in spite of grey skies and bitter wind, I defiantly (even jauntily) rode my bike one neighborhood over to celebrate a friend's birthday at a great little pub in Carroll Gardends called 'Jakewalk'. After which I had to abandon ship and return to Park Slope (1.1 miles away) in a car service, to avoid the epic thunderstorms.

Then on Sunday this happened.



Out of the sun, the air was still cool, but as I wandered around the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens more and more evidence of what promises to be the sweetest Spring I have ever known was bursting out, full of colour and fragance and romance.

And it occurred to me, that though this Winter has felt interminable in its slugglishness and while sometimes it feels like nothing will ever change, I can't help but smile at how far we've come in a few short months.