But yesterday, when I ventured out into the 30 degree morning to move my car to the opposite side of my street, I smelled it. Real Spring may not have the balmy days and ubiquitous budding flowers of Imaginary Spring, but it does have a scent. It smells like earth emerging tentatively from a blanket of snow, or a river just beginning to transform from ice to water again. It smells cold, but not like cold arriving; it smells like cold getting ready - very slowly - to leave.
So I decided to combine the errand I had to run in Glastonbury with a quick walk down Main Street. Glastonbury looks lovely in any season, but it wasn't exactly warm out. Sadly, nobody was wearing a pastel sweater. But there's still time. Maybe Imaginary Spring will show up next month.