The thunder truly did arrive on cue. Over the past week, several strong storm fronts rolled through — one after another — as if spring were announcing itself in full voice. The rain came in waves, soaking the garden and drumming against the windows. It was beautiful, moody, and appropriately dramatic.

I didn’t get around to writing this post in time. Spring has a way of pulling you into its whirlwind. And this year has been no exception.

The air is warming, and the world is waking up. According to the current kō, “Cherry Blossoms Bloom”, a poetic reminder of fleeting beauty and nature’s delicate balance. I had hoped to capture a few photos of cherry blossoms in bloom this week, but alas, my hunt for a picturesque flowering cherry was unsuccessful. Every promising tree I spotted seemed to be tucked deep in someone’s yard, and while I’m all about chasing beauty, I draw the line at trespassing. I’d rather not explain to a bewildered homeowner why I’m crouching in their bushes with a camera.

Spring officially arrived two days ago, and it’s already painting the town; quite literally.

Driving around Pensacola lately feels like moving through a dream. Azaleas are everywhere, bursting into bloom with a kind of exuberance that’s impossible to ignore. Hedges, yards, old Southern foundations; all awash in shades of hot pink, magenta, coral, and snowy white. Some seem to glow from within, especially against the backdrop of still-bare trees or last fall’s lingering brown leaves. It’s as if the whole city suddenly remembered it was alive.

A storm passed through last night. The kind that makes you brace for impact, scanning the skies, waiting. But as the winds settled and the rain eased, morning arrived softer than expected; cool, fresh, and humming with life.

This shift feels fitting. We’re now in the microseason known as "Caterpillars Become Butterflies" (蟄虫啓戸, Chitchū keito), a time of emergence. Insects that spent winter hidden away begin to stir, sensing that transformation is near. The world is waking up, piece by piece.

I was afraid this would happen. Right now, we are in the kō known as momo hajimete saku, or "Peach Blossoms Begin to Bloom." This period, lasting from March 10 to March 14, marks the early signs of spring as peach trees begin to unfurl. However, my peach tree, an early-fruiting Elberta variety, has already bloomed and leafed out.

The Kō for this microseason is called Insects Awaken from Hibernation. I went outside, curious to see who was stirring, and was quickly greeted by the unmistakable buzz of carpenter bees (Xylocopa spp.), energetically weaving through the delicate blooms of false rosemary (Conradina canescens).

As I have previously mentioned, the transition from winter to spring here is not a single, dramatic shift but rather a quiet and deliberate unfurling. The land stirs, stretching toward the sun, revealing the first signs of what will soon become a full, vibrant renewal. It is during this time that our native azaleas whisper their promise; offering nothing more than tight buds for now, but within them, the intricate blueprint of a breathtaking spectacle lies waiting.

Over the past few weeks, daffodils have been slowly making their appearance in my yard and around the neighborhood, and this week they seem to be reaching a fevered pitch—heralding the promise of spring with their cheerful, golden blooms.

Daffodils, members of the Narcissus genus, trace their roots back to the Mediterranean region, where their wild ancestors first flourished.

Today marks the beginning of the kō known as Rain Moistens the Soil. Aptly named, as we had a big storm move through last night, saturating the ground and priming it for growth. However, in its wake, temperatures are plummeting, and frost threatens to reclaim any progress made by the first hints of spring.

The weather has been fluctuating a lot lately. It has been sunny, then dense fog. A daytime warm enough to coax me to the beach, then cold enough to need an extra cover at night. Followed by another day that is brisk and chilly, but then balmy and humid at night as each new front moves through. 

As winter gives way to spring, one of the earliest signs of the seasonal shift is an increase in birdsong. This year, I started noticing more birds singing in my area and wondered, was this a real phenomenon, or just my perception?

In the traditional Japanese 72-microseason calendar, this period is known as "East Wind Melts the Ice" (東風解凍), a time when the first hints of warmth signal the slow thawing of winter’s grip. Here on the Gulf Coast, however, winter's presence was fleeting. The unprecedented snow, a rare and brief visitor, melted away within days, leaving only the memory of frost-laden branches and the crunch of ice underfoot.

The concept of microseasons has long fascinated me. While we commonly divide the year into four seasons, Japan recognizes 72 microseasons, each lasting around five days. These microseasons are based on ancient Chinese solar terms, known in Mandarin as jieqi or sekki in Japanese, which divide the year into 24 seasonal periods. Each sekki is further broken down into three kō, or microseasons, capturing nature's subtle transitions.

Unpredictable weather is becoming the new normal, challenging our landscapes in ways we never imagined. Growing up in Florida, I always dreamed of seeing snow, building a snowman, or making snow angels. Never would I have guessed the snow would come to us, but here it is! Just because the weather is unpredictable does not mean you cannot create a lush, tropical-inspired oasis that can withstand the whims of Mother Nature.