Random, and somehow rhythmic, the rain fell last night- the first spring rain.
Sun-bleached linens beckoned in earnest as the sweet drops pattered above.
Then… sleep took me.
Spring in the Midwest is divine. The blue skies are ornamented with burst of puffy clouds and fresh air seems to reach the soul. The sun glows in the purest of yellows and for a moment there is not an unhappy face to be found. The robin returns and early dawn echoes the cardinal’s happy song. It’s all so splendid that I forget.
Thawing is a messy business. The cloak of snow fades leaving the ground tender and exposed. The dead leaves of last season plague the ill-colored grass and it all turns to mush. How awkward, in those first sweet days, does the mighty oak look; no brilliant red of mature foliage or diamond frost to line its form. And just when the sludge has nearly convinced my winter-wearied soul to retreat back inside…
Morning sun now reveals the night rain’s inexplicable magic. A sea of indistinguishable brown suddenly hints of small green shoots. The knobby branch explodes and young blossoms push from each gnarled finger. Subtle yet unyielding life has made its way out of the impressionable murk and behold, something new has begun.