The Spring Swing

Warmth spills through the east-facing window, and I let the light find me.

Spring, finally.

I follow my feet outside. My fingers, freed from their gloves, reunite with the dewy air. I turn to the Sun, allowing my cheeks to luxuriate in Her kiss. The Earth and I exhale together. 

An amethyst glow contrasts the muted winter landscape. I have to bend down to identify the modest gems as Crocus. I didn’t grow up around them, but they immediately feel like old friends who are here to welcome me into the next season.

I 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.

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

An icy freeze covers the land. The delicate Crocus cling limply to the glass surface. Just as they began to open, the harsh cold bites their blooms. I watch them fold back into themselves.

My body remembers. I know what it is to open too early.

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

The spring swing.