I saw today the first sign of spring flowers straining to rise above a recent snow. They appeared to be the tender shoots of daffodils, and they are not to be blamed for what might be perceived as a premature entrance. Perennials operate on a system of growth that really has little to do with the weather. Completing their visible growth long before summer arrives, their tops die back all the while manufacturing food that will be stored in the bulbs and roots through subsequent autumns and winters. Starting in the spring, the process continues all summer long with perennials designed to mature and bloom at different times, thus filling flower beds with color until the first frost and sometimes even beyond.

In the woods, life is also stirring beneath layers of last year’s leaves and beneath the snow that melts more slowly in the shaded areas. Brush some of it away and you are sure to find clumps of pale yellow or green sprouts curling up from the rich humus composed of years of decayed plant material. It’s not unusual this time of year to see new shoots pushing up from the earth and growing straight through dead leaves, their strong tips having pierced their way through, more evidence of nature’s indomitable spirit. I’ve lost count of those times when I’ve raked the yard of leaves only to expose hundreds of bleached, sun-starved seedlings just waiting for a bit of light to perk them up. Within days, and with the help of late winter rains, plants with once questionable futures seem to be miraculously reborn as they rise in splendor above the cold earth, defying late cold snaps and spring storms.

The birds, too, are not all that mindful of the weather. For days now, I’ve been hearing cardinals in the distance, their unmistakable chime-like song reaching me through all the other noises of life. Then suddenly one day, there he was, the male, in all his crimson glory, flying from one shrub to another, keeping to the lower branches, as cardinals often do, most likely in search of food or, at this time of year, a mate. The female cardinal is not nearly as impressive. Her body is identical to the male’s though somewhat smaller, but her feathers are a dull olive-brown, and her song is not nearly as intense or insistent as her mate’s.

A northern flicker seems to have taken up residence in a nearby dead tree. Every morning, I hear its harsh, throaty call, then watch as it creeps up the dead trunk some distance before finally disappearing into its nest hole. It’s far too high up for me to be privy to the impending big event, so I will try to keep an eye out for more activity up there as the days lengthen and warm.

Yes, dear, silly spring, as Stevens so aptly puts it, teasing us capriciously with snowstorms, vacillating between cold days and mild, before inundating us finally in her unique beauty, shouting her arrival in bursts of green from daffodil to birch tree bud. This year, it has felt like spring for a long time before a recent plunge back into winter, and there is some solace in the fact that a late-season storm places us more closely to the season of rebirth as the calendar goes. And it’s always an odd feeling to see snow falling when the setting sun starts lingering longer in the western sky and when we are so close to again setting our clocks ahead an hour. Our inner sense of all things natural speaks to us then, telling us that winter is slowly losing its grip on the landscape and that there will soon be much more green to be seen against the dull grays and browns of a winter ground that will soon be once again but a memory.

— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Lyman, who enjoys exploring the woods of southern Maine, can be reached via email at rlovejoy84253@roadrunner.com.