We feel entitled to warmth on St. Patrick's Day after suffering through the inevitable Valentine's Day chill but the hopes of a warm green day are usually dashed by bitter winds with no intention of surrender. But after St. Paddy's, the warmth slowly sneaks in, breaking winter's back for good.
Downtown streets are lined with shoppers, workers, scenesters sporting a wild range of incongruous clothing.
Optimists wear short sleeves, Nikes and miniskirts, pessimists stick to their heavy winter coats, boots and hats.
The two groups stand incongruously at red lights with their sartorial philosophies grinding against each other.
Zippers are left parted for the first time since September, offering a tease of torso, as human forms seen only in TV and pixellated screens, reappear for real.
Golden afternoon sunlight lingers, pouring delicious yellow tones on everything from puddles of slush to gleaming downtown buildings.
Embattled black soot-covered hills of pockmarked jagged snow sit by the roadside, fighting for survival.
Tiny little mystery flowers push their heads up among the grass.
Shop assistants stand outside on the sidewalks watching the action on their work breaks because everything is suddenly interesting.
The season of mud underfoot comes with a heady odour of dog poop warning where not to tread.
Hockey pucks emerge from the receding snow, offering a gift to anybody with a sharp eye and a shelf to rest them on for eight months until hockey returns.
The sun is no longer just a source of light, the great yellow ball has become a gift: it has turned from fluorescent bulb to sun lamp.
Tiny unnamed temporary rivers are formed on roadways of melting ice and snow which head towards drains blocked by viscous slush as stubborn as a beaver dam..
All is hope. All things are possible. Dreams of summertime are permitted.
Every day gets warmer and hearts are filled with hope and excitement for things to come.