I smelled the first scent of rain last night. Even though snow is in our forecast, it's always that first time that makes spring's approach real for me. I know, it's March and we may very well have much shoveling to do before it rains again.

But I'm already looking at the gardens that I neglected to properly clean last fall. They've been scolding me all winter and I'm anxious to make amends. Loosing myself in the struggle to clear weeds, dig fresh borders and trim back overgrown rose canes is therapy that comes without prescriptions, appointments or even yoga sessions.

By now we have all used up our best prescriptions against short days and long, cold nights. We've sipped hot teas and toddies and read, and perhaps even re-read our favorite classics. We've celebrated the holidays, and sent our company home.

We've watched endless games of football, hockey and basketball, polishing off beers and bratwurst that will force us to work them off in the summer sun-if we haven't taken to the gym already.

The sun leaves later now and is almost cruel to do so on days that are still chilled and windy. But the light has shifted, and a yellow crocus is pushing up between matted, dead leaves, and that smell of rain, that first rain, tells me spring is coming again.