I’ve been watching you. There’s this extraordinary thing you do, you see. It’s this coy little trick, when your branches are crisp and bare, and you’ve waited out the snowmelt, enough, you know, just enough to announce your big plans for the year.
You lengthen the days, shake the clouds, and you get these birds delivered from who knows where. They’re out every morning now, testing the twigs or yelling obscenities at one another, for all we know.
365 days, just the right length of time to forget the precise flavours and sounds of Spring. Spring has always been a bit suspect, as seasons go. False starts are not uncommon. I recall a snowfall in June! And once I was teaching an English class and one of the students expressed a great distaste for Spring – she crinkles her nose and squints and shakes her head – walking out with the sun in my eyes and the cold wind at my back, oh, no… I do not like this – and I’ve always remembered this line, wondered at the metaphor of it. A warm path ahead, you promise?
False or not, you allow us this thin moment, a weekend or two (sometimes it feels like mere hours!) but I’ll steal up through the moss and clamber through watery forests, and weigh the strength of your promises for myself.
Yep, good enough, methinks. You’ve convinced me. Not with your sun, not your warmth… it’s the rain that earns my trust.