Spring rarely arrives to the farm all at once.
It begins in small ways – on the windowsill, on the kitchen table, in quiet corners of the house while the snow still sits deep outside.
Spring starts quietly inside.
Little decorations of green appear on shelves, shamrock shaped and full of festive fun. Eggs pile up on the counter faster than we can seem to eat them. The light shifts, just enough to notice if you’re paying attention.
The house begins to feel awake again.
Outside the ground is still buried beneath ice and snow, but the garden starts anyways.
Seeds passed from small hand to small hand, pressed gently into soil that will sit by the window for weeks yet.
A new little helper joined us at the table this year.
Soil scattered across the surface, muddy fingers and messy work—
and somehow, it made it even sweeter.
The days don’t change all at once. Most days unfold around the table. They stretch slowly – filled with small hands, small messes and moments that don’t ask to be hurried.
Colouring pages spread across the table top.
A somewhat hot coffee in hand.
A few pages of a book stolen between the chaos.
Little feet climbing where they shoulnd’t, pulling chairs in close just to be a part of it all.
Nothing feels rushed.
Nothing feels finished.
It’s just the slow passing of another day.
And then, suddenly, it feels like Spring.
A box of chicks arrives, all soft noise and movement.
Warmth under a heat lamp.
Tiny feet in fresh shavings curious.
This is the kind of life that doesn’t wait for the snow to melt. The kind that simply begins anyways.
Outside, winter lingers.
Snow blankets the yard.
The deck still crunches underfoot.
Birds come and go at the feeder as they always have, unaware of any shift at all.
From the window, it looks like nothing has changed.
But inside, everything has.
Spring doesn’t arrive here all at once.
It starts on the windowsill, in a carton of eggs, in a handful of seeds passed across the kitchen table –
– and sometimes, in a box of chicks, arriving before the thaw.
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