March arrives with wide skies and the first daffodils.

Like the first breeze through an open window. The one that feels like the world quietly waking up again.

Light blue skies stretch wide overhead, dotted with big white clouds drifting lazily past. Yellow begins to appear everywhere, especially in the daffodils pushing up from the earth like little sparks of sunshine.

February feels like a love letter written in red ink.

In roses that blush and bloom unapologetically.
In candlelight flickering across a table set for celebration.
In champagne towers and a joyful “chin! chin!” that echoes through the room.

January doesn’t ask us to rush.
She asks us to listen.

To the hush between waves.
To the glimmer beneath the surface.
To the quiet knowing that something beautiful is forming… even when we can’t see it yet.

November feels like the soft inhale before winter arrives — late–autumn light, deep plums and mauves, peaches warmed by the last of the sun. The garden winding down, the end of harvest reminding us that not everything blooms fast… but everything blooms when it’s ready.