Weather or not

imageimageimageimageimageimage imageI have always imagined spring to be a string of warm, sunny days sprinkled with dew. A season that arrived as a prelude to summer and then departed.  Back where I once lived I believed  this to be pretty much the case.

Not true!

Rain only interrupted this bounty on occasion, just often enough to work its wonders and make the grass glisten.

Not so here.

Here, spring has come to mean something entirely different, and though quite different, infinitely  slow and meaningful. Spring is something I no longer observe but a phenomenon I deeply experience with my hands and all my senses.

Spring is no longer sensory alone but especially physical. It means cold and cloudy days and days filled with digging dirt and mulch. It’s the  tiniest shoot,  a means of measuring the slightest seasonal drift.

And I am involved on the most primal level, enjoying every grain of loosened soil.  And every day a shoot, a leaf, a bud, and clouds and winds and rain, and nothing more. Till later.

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