Thursday, May 13, 2010

An Ode To Spring

Here in North America Spring is rapidly approaching, there is an amorous arousal on the Continent, and with it comes the inclination, compulsion even, for humans to do what most humans do to ensure that we, as a species, continue to exist.
Friending on our Facebooks, and Tweeting on our Twitters.

I thought the weather was going to hold for Spring, when we had a weeks worth of high 70’s / low 80’s sunny days. But a snowstorm snuck its way in here a couple of days ago, covering the trees, and the ground, with a beautiful fresh blanket of sweet surreal virgin–white mountain foam. An image to die for. Nothing digital, or technical, in the visitation. Purely natural, a cool exhaled breath from the mouth of nature’s own magnificence. An unexpected pleasure, like a postcard from an old friend, or a kiss on the forehead from one’s lover. The snow lasted only through the next day, and then was gone, melting into the earth like a heart melts into the arms of a warm embrace; winter, having quietly exited stage left, with clear skies, and that glorious sunshine, emerging to enchant the restless patrons with its own particular brilliance.

This change of season has enabled the canoe to find its way out of the barn, and the fishing poles to jump into the hands of eager anglers. At least with an amateur like me the fish should be safe for another season. Portions of the day can now be spent, gratefully, beneath an ever-expanding sky. Lake-time like no other time, and taking time to love it makes for harmony in, and of, a far-too-often flat and dissonant soul such as myself.

The buds (not those kind) are popping out on trees and bushes like measles on a six-year-old boy. Some have already begun to bloom, our dogwood trees, typically, running well ahead of the others. The Dogwood’s know when Spring’s about ready to emerge. I think the Grand Designer may text them ahead of time, allowing them the pleasure of the first display.

Early morning time writing, after-breakfast walks in the forest, or cruising the pristine shore of the lake, working on the land, evenings sitting on the porch, then laying awake all night in anticipation of being able to get up early tomorrow to enjoy it all again.
It’s a good time of life for me. I’m very thankful for that.

But as I sit here writing there’s a buzzard perched on an old Oak branch just outside my window. Ironically, he’s probably waiting for me to die. Although some may argue that I’m already dead, Spring indicates to me otherwise. I can feel helium in my blood again, and life in my creaking bones. I’m hoping you can feel that too.

Not the ‘creaking’ part, of course, but the ‘life’ part, for sure.