Snøen regnet bort i natt, gatene er ikke lengre melkehvite, men skittengrå. Og forsatt gjør kulden vondt i leddene, og mørket pirker i morgenlyset med stive, tynne, hudløse fingre.
Jeg sender tre brev, utsetter å male stuevinduet, drikker morgenkaffi til langt utpå formiddagen, leker med B og zebrabamsen hans, og jeg venter. Venter og venter og venter og tenker på mykheten av doggvåte gåseunger mot fingertuppene.
For snart er det vår.
In English, please:
The snow rained away last night, and now the streets are no longer milky white, but dirty gray. This morning I sent three letters, postponed painting the living room window, drank morning coffee until it was afternoon, played with B and his stuffed zebra, and I waited. Waited, waited and waited, for the softness of spring.
(Does anybody know what the soft, silvery things that pop out before the leaves (like in these pictures), are called in English?)