The Spring Swing

As warmth spills through the bedroom’s east-facing window, I stretch my arms overhead and let the light find me.

Spring, finally.

I’m pulled outside before I can think twice. My fingers, freed from their gloves, reunite with the dewy air. I turn my face to the sun, allowing my cheeks to luxuriate in Her kiss. The Earth and I exhale together. 

Delicate, amethyst blooms contrast the muted winter landscape. I have to bend down to identify these modest gems as crocus. I didn’t grow up around them, but they immediately feel like old friends who eagerly welcome me to the next season.

I instinctively trust their purple path deeper into the woods. 

There, I find silvery, furry buds on bare branches begging to emerge. Pussy Willow. Another harbinger of spring that I just know will open slowly over the next few weeks.

I putter.

Meander.

Jaunt.

I return home peacefully and reach for a book with a soft spine, another familiar friend to keep me company as I drift off to sleep.

The next day, I wake up with a bitter edge.

A deep frost covers the landscape. The delicate crocus cling limply to the glass surface. Just as they started to open up, they’re forced to retreat into themselves. Their soft whisper of spring bitten by the harsh cold. 

My heart pangs in my chest - I know that feeling.

I go back inside. I pick a fight with Drew. I spend the day feeling sorry for myself.

The spring swing.