Spring is here. In case you hadn't noticed, the birds have returned. They twitter and chirrup and flutter about in my back yard, hop-hop-hopping from one corner to another, fluttering up unexpectedly. Over the top of the fence they go and down again like a clean sheet blown from the clothesline to land on the neighbor's lawn. Or, hadn't you noticed?
The forsythia, dogwood, tulip tree, privet, tulips, crocus, daffodils, and redbuds are brilliant along house fronts and curbs, ringing around the bases of trees and adorning walkways. I am anxious to take off my shoes and feel the grass underfoot again, soft and tender and cool; I want to walk across it in a slow zigzag and then loop around the tree, feeling the bark rough and wonderful under my hand.
I want to breathe it in, drink it up, give myself over to its luxury. I envy my little dog - she is so close to it all. The ant hill I may trample is not beneath her notice; she can chase a squirrel and not look a bit silly; she can stick her nose down into the grass to discover its scent and register the fragrance of the dirt. She can taste the rainwater that's collected in a low spot on the walkway without fear.
But, I must find my own ways to mark the season. To admire it, embrace it, celebrate it. I have no intention of letting a bit of it pass unnoticed. Spring is a poem sprung to life, God's coloring book, a grace note in the orchestration of seasons. It is feathers and fancy and freedom and finery. It is lace and luxury and lingering and love. Oh, let it be spring!
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