Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Lesson #57: Recognize spring.

When is spring?

What is that skin-taste that sends our body thrilling to the idea that spring is here. Suddenly. 
What makes us say, Now it is spring. 
When is that Now-Spring?

In the Valley, this spring is familiar. It comes early in the year. Brought on the trill of birdsong before dawn. Wafting on breezes heavy with the scent of almond blossoms. Floating like snow in drifts of Bradford pear flowers. 

In the Valley, spring is betrothed on first day the air is filled with sunshine. Not sunshine breaking through high winter fog or falling through spaces between cumulus clouds. But sunshine seeping upward. Sunshine caressing skin weary of cloth.

In the South, spring unfurls in the broadening mid-morning shadows cast by budding hickory. It rolls in waves of purple wisteria, climbs old brick walls like kudzu, and crawls along trellises burdened with overgrown roses in old-lady gardens. In the South, spring creeps in, slow like. 

But here, in the Valley, spring glides in like bees flitting toward freshly popped petals.
From petal to petal the bees carry promise. 
Promise of sweet scents and color. 
Promise of sun-filled seasons to come. 
Promise of spring.
One day winter. One day spring. 

Here, in the Now-Spring, the air is thick with it, heavy as a bridal gown. Heavy on skin anxious for a naked romp in the bridal bed of summer.