Springtimes

Some springs are vibrant. They announce themselves like the dawn, with an explosion of colour and life and sound. Balmy, fierce, and unforgivably ready. Like bright pink lipstick to match the blooming of the roses and fields of wildflowers. With them come the call of blue jays and the rustle of robins in high-up pine tree boughs. They taste like the wild mint slowly taking over the garden, and like deep amber honey dripping from honeycomb, and like kisses stolen from lovers while watching the local spring parade shout and cheer and honk its way down main street. They are feeling the squish of the mud on your feet as you run through fields of clover in your backyard. They are the coveted springs, the wealthy springs, the spring that’s the foil to winter’s darkness.

But vibrant springs are like a brilliant match flame or golden hour or a whirlwind romance; they run their course and burn themselves out long before anyone is ready for the heavy humidity of the summer to follow. For, often, the summer to follow a vibrant spring is just as rich–often, sometimes, too rich.

And then their are the dark springs. Springs that are the very antithesis to the brightness of vibrant springs. They are when Persephone clings to her underworld, arguing with Demeter about coming back home. The are angry and make you wonder if winter ever left as the endless torrents of rain thrash about the newly budding trees. They are the darkest hours that escaped daylight saving’s time, punctuated by rolls of thunder you can feel in your chest and lightning strikes that cut through the fog straight from a detective novel. The are the bite of a pomegranate, the taste of black coffee. They are powerful, and some people do not see them as a spring at all. But, yet, there is always one lone daffodil to brave the onslaught, opening its bright yellow petals among the deep purple crocuses, thorn-filled roses, and rich greens, teased out like a single ray of sunshine breaking a cloudy day.

These dark springs are the longest lasting, melting into stormy summers coveted by sun-burned lifeguards and exhausted swimmers. They produce the most violent, beautiful sunsets every night, making every thunderstorm worth a thousand cloudless blue skies.

Then there are quiet springs. Springs that don’t seem to come at all until one day you find yourself looking up into the bluest sky, soft breezes caressing your hair and dancing over your eyelashes as you lay in the sun. They announce themselves softly–a warm wind here, a light shower there–teasing out every lilac and every cherry blossom into sweet scents. The bubble of a stream, the laughter of a friend, and the quiet birdsong just as the very first fireflies awaken to blink among the honeysuckle bushes of your friend’s backyard, as you watch the stars come out after a picnic at a favored park, light skirts patterned with flowers spread across the new grass. They taste of warm chamomile sweetened with sunflower honey, and sweet macarons warmed by the sun. The are the feeling of flying at the top of the upswing at a local park, as you listen to the quiet bubble of a fountain in the distance. Soft springs are quiet springs, mellow, lovely, and full of adventure waiting behind locked garden walls and rich garden paths.

Soft springs leave as they came: slowly, quietly, like a flit of a butterflies wings they bring upon a summer filled with chilly mornings paired with hoodies, nights of twinkling stars, and gentle sunrays, waiting to kiss any exposed skin with a creamy tan and make any drink slick with cool condensation. Soft springs turn into adventurous summers, ready to be filled with music, letters, and late-light bonfire conversations.

Whatever spring we find ourselves in, may we make it beautiful.

~ Of Rainy Days.

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