I emerge from the chrysalis of winter, gulping in the air of a new season. Plum trees are kissed in pink and white tissue winks; a hope of fruition. Recent mornings greet me with a crimson male. His notes are all aflutter; he is letting me know that he too sits on the crest of promise.
All of my hope lies within the perimeters of this day, with the dead leaves blowing behind me, like a stray dog I’ve just told to go home. I have no problem transitioning into the warm, fluffy-clouded emerald of spring. I live each year at the outer edge of winter’s stark loneliness, longingly awaiting the daffodil’s green spires to peak through the thawing earth. Nothing could delight me more than to pack away the snow boots in exchange for my forever old, but extremely loved sandals.
Tumbleweeds are slowly gathering into disheveled clusters at the corner of the property. Tomorrow could be windy, but at least it won’t have last month’s bite of frost. The long lazy evenings are old friends of mine, and I am all too anxious to sit back and gush about the day with them. As I do, I will trace the garden path in my sandals and wait for the seedlings to surface.
I am happy. Spring is here.