A three-day stretch of warmth and it’s cold again this morning. 
     ‘Which Winter is this?’ Silky Josephine asks, shivering. 
     We have five little Winters here after Winter. Spring cold snaps, four of which magically correlate with the blooming of the Redbuds, the Dogwoods, the Locust trees and the Blackberries. In that order. 
     The fifth, there were no blossoms for, and so was called, Wooly Britches, or just plain Wooly, as you will need something woolen and warm to wear, which hopefully you haven’t already stowed away. 
     The Redbuds, Silky’s favorite because they are pinkish, have already blossomed, as have the Dogwoods, again Silky’s favorite for obvious reasons. 
     ‘It’s Locust Winter,’ I tell her, which sadly we don’t have many of, Black Locust, for their bushels upon bushels of glorious white blossoms produce a scent that should not be reduced by words, but rather drawn in deeply and held near to the heart, for you will recognize it again at Heaven’s own gates. 
     ‘Locust Winter,’ Silky repeats, for she is committing in their proper order the five little Winters after Winter to memory. 
     ‘Yes’, I tell her. ‘Black Locust. There’s a grove down the road. We’ll go there later, if you’d like, when the sun has warmed the flowers.’ 
     And those eyes, so wide and so bright, I don’t need for her to answer.