My yard is a mess. The laurels are splayed open, ice daggers in their midsections. The espaliered firethorn is ripped from the stones it's been climbing for almost eight years, toppled over in the driveway and frozen-stuck to the snowpiles. The holly tree out front snapped in half, its top now hanging pathetically by a thread. I'm tired of winter's destruction, the flip side of the fertility and plenty of the year's other seasons. They will come soon enough. Not soon enough.