So long had the ground been frozen, pretty yet barren beneath the ice, that we had quite given up on the spring. March became April. April almost became May when the first of many green wands appeared. There they were, a bouquet of smiles, bravely heading up toward the sun.
We reclined into the springtime as if she were a beloved armchair, her flowers returning for another season.
As the first verse of a favourite song, spring arrived.
Spring awakens with a chatterbox of greens.
The springtime never waits upon the perfect ice-free day, yet pushes forth at first chance for the warming light of day.
Spring blossoms open from green carpet to heaven's boughs, revealing their soft hearts within.
The spring greets the skin as butterfly wings greet the air, with a gentle uplifting confidence.
The spring came with a gentle spirit, as one who realises that warming up softly often brings the best results to the heart and soul.
In the spring there are vestiges of winter, yet also the promise of warm summer days ahead.
The spring, she comes to give her bounty to all her children, setting the example that we give to one another. She sends her rain and warm wind to kiss the rich brown soils, to waken the seeds and sing to them as they grow. She blesses the skies with more of our winged brethren, from the mighty eagle to the firefly. The flowers come, each one so much more than any photograph, delicate and strong. And in this time of newness we fill our lungs to fullness and hear her urging us to run, to feel the power she gives within.
Here we are with the wild flowers rising from the earth, looking to the casual eye as weeds until they bloom. Who pays attention to their chaotic stems that twist in the joy of new life until they wear colours as bold as any festival diva? Then there they are in the air that becomes more welcoming each day, a community of colours, a feast for butterfly and bee.
From the mud come flowers as golden as sunshine, as fluid as rain. They come at first in ones and twos, yet soon they are the most buoyant of crowds, happily dancing in the wind.
No more the bare wands that told of winter's magic, here come the green flags, the parade of spring in bright bloom. The chorus of the skies has has called forth the promise of the earth and sunshine combined. These weeks will be as a developing photograph - the colours deepening with the richness of the season. The rain will wash warmer over each face, a freshness to open each budding smile.
There is a playfulness in nature, in the skies, woodland and soil. The time of plenty is coming and the joy of coming abundance energizes the air. In rain or shine, there is a new warmth, inviting the lips to smile. The greenness of the grass is soon to be echoed by the trees, while the flowers promise their rainbow garland to our Earth.
I have never seen blooms that appeared to kiss the sky so boldly as those scarlet tulips. They raised themselves from the earth as if they were some magic trick turning the timid earth into steady and brilliant flames.
The early morning sunlight, soft and diffuse, gives way to the first strong rays of the day, the ones that bring true warmth. In this light, water evaporates in slow waves, waves that eddy in the gentle breeze, flowing upward to white-puffed clouds, ships of white in the blue above. The opera from the trees becomes all the more powerful, as if these golden rays are their conductor's wand, and together they are the song that calls forth the spring.
A female blackbird hops on the newly defrosted grass, her deep brown legs matching the soil below. She has feathers the colour of every tree, of every wisp of wood that promises life to come. There is something in the way she moves, a joy, as she relishes the season change. The air is cool, but she can feel the promise of warmth within.
After so long without it I am surprised by the warmth in the sun's rays. No longer does it leach my heat but instead it gives to me. Once more my breaths are quite invisible and the birds are more active in the sky. Still cloud lingers but today it is not a dense layer of grey but instead a chaotic array of white puffy shapes amid the blue. I stretch out my hands and tilt my face upward. This sun is not enough to burn - even for me - and whilst it has the first lick of summer about it I put that out of my mind. Savouring the moment is important, tomorrow isn't guaranteed to anyone, not even me.
Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by .
The spring washed in like the tide, advancing confidently with warmth and white sunshine one day and retreating the next. On some days the new vibrant hues of the pansies and daffodils were bathed in tepid air that encouraged them gently, on others the wintry wind gusted fiercely - demanding a return to the bitterness of the months before. But like the tide, the spring would not be stopped, it pushed on right into May, banishing the chill to memory. By then the birds were busy with feeding the never ending appetites of chicks and the cats prowled the hospital grounds in the hopes that one might fall. Sometimes the rain would fall gently, and other-times lash at the windows of the ward, but its iciness was quite gone. It was on one of these warm but wet mornings that Mac finally got his discharge - reaching forward with his left leg and clacking down the cane in his right hand. Recovery had been slow, but his memory was quite restored.
The previously denuded branches offered their wands of tight green bud to the brilliant rays of spring. The wind had lost its bite, it had become ambient, congenial, blowing branches and tousling the hair of pedestrians - but no longer stealing their warmth. From the gardens waved the precocious yellow bloom of the daffodils, and should Simon be drawn into the woodland today there were bluebells too. He tilted his head toward the sky to feel the new heat in the sunlight's kiss. How he had missed it in these long grey London months. The only clouds were fluffy, white and quite dispersed, there would be no rain today.
Under the gentle spring sun its rays warm my skin - like kisses from the divine. The nascent leaves have that soft green and the ground is scattered with vivid blooms whose petals dance in the breeze. I love spring. I could drink it up like a tonic. Instead I spread my fingers wide and fan them though the damp air - like I did when I was a kid trying to fly, only now it's just something that makes me smirk. Birds above flit from branch to branch, letting out their sweet melody. If this day was a beautiful restaurant dish it would be a fresh salad with feta cheese and olives. If it was a drink it would be a chilled glass of white wine. But I prefer to think of it as music, and so with each step I hear the Beetles "All you need is love, love, love is all you need..."
On the plains there were years in which old man winter refused to give up without a fight. Spring would ride in on a gentle breeze, unhindered by any hill. This April air would soothe the embattled flora with its sweet promise of the warmth to come, only to be pushed back by bitter gales and hail. But the spring was patient, always returning in the calm between each storm and each time expanding until it had ebbed out the frigid blasts entirely. Then for some months it rained down both water and soft heat. Some days could still be a blanket of cloud, like the season passed, but mostly they were sporadic and sparse - allowing the brilliant light to strike the fields unhindered. Soon the fields were not brown at all, but swathes of waving green. Always we were in an ocean of white, brown, green or gold, but it was the green I liked best - green stretching way up the mountains in the far north and to the blue of the sky in the south.
These are the days where there is light under the dark. These are the days where the green grass grows fast through the cracks and there is laughter beneath cloudy skies. The sidewalk may be cold, yet every foot is dry. Even when the night calls street-lamps stand tall, arching over the silvery road, illuminating the way. These are the days when flowers are the jewels of the new season. These are the days we grow strong.
On tiptoes I reached up to the window ledge, eyes wide, hoping to see the first shoots of spring. Just yesterday I sat with mama - her, me, mud, newspaper and beans. We made little pots using our hands, the black and white strips becoming something new, something capable of holding new life. Oddly, once the soil was inside they became more stable, like proper pots. We stood them in a tray, added a bean to each and water too. She said to be patient, there is nothing yet, but I know every morning will be the same, standing here on tip toes until they grow tall enough to be planted in our garden.
The newest leaves of the holly tree come with full blush at the tips, yet to take on the strong green of their more mature peers.