Daydreams of Spring

Morning Stroll


She stands in the winter-darkened wings, waiting to make her entrance, trailing silks and chiffons; like a great dancer, a grand jete will be her signature motion. But for now, she waves a bit silk to tease her audience, who wait breathlessly for the grand moment . . .

However we picture spring, we are being blessed with several days of 50 degree-plus, sunny weather here in New England. Yesterday, I sat on the deck and baked my winter-weary, pale white skin. Not the best thing to do, but it was a must. Sweat actually formed on my brow and I had to remove my sweater; I eventually took off my hiking boots and wriggled my toes in the warm air, letting them rest on the sun-baked wood. I did not go inside until well after 5pm. And next weekend is Daylight Savings, so the clocks will be turned ahead, giving us extra hours of light at the end of the day. Glorious!

This morning I took a long walk, not striding with purpose but rather strolling, ambling in the early morning sunlight, letting the cool wind wake me up. As I walked, I purposely looked up, not down, which is usually my habit, searching for little bits of twigs, which I collect for some odd reason. For some it's pebbles and stones, for me it's those quirky bits of wood that remain after the woodchipper has left or the flattened pine cones squashed by the snow plows.

Up above the sky was azure, cerulean, so clear and bright it seered these eyes more accustomed to dimmed winter interiors. Evergreens and birches pressed themselves against the china blue, cutting a fine edge of contours. Black crows scuttled from tree to tree, making screechy sounds, almost delirious with the growing warmth of the morning.

As I walked neighbor's windchimes gave off sweet, yet melancholy metallic notes that drifted in the wind, and these were answered by the chirrups and chuckles of goldfinches and chickadees darting among the still bare branches. There was little car traffic as this is Sunday, so the quiet was deep and delicious.

Green! How many greens can there be as we slowly make the curve into the new season? The darkened green of ivies climbing walls and chimneys lay against the brighter green of rhododendrons, melted snows revealed patches of mosses, grey-green lichens on dun-colored bark, white pine needles, like slender threads, offered slivers of green against the blue-green of a spruce. Even the magnolias offered a feathery sage green veil promising so many thousands of buds ready to break free.

With the growing warmth, the smell of earth drifted upwards, something that I had not met on my walks for months now. It was almost as heady as baked bread, making my gardener's mouth water. Yesterday I had done several hours' work in the garden, clearing out leaves and mulches, lightly pruning dead branches and readying the ground for the first signs of growth. Amazingly, my hostas and daylilies are peeking through, little fingers of green tipped in white and purple edging up through the ground. A primula flashes her ruffled leaves and soon will offer another heady smell if one bends low enough to catch it.

I have no series of images to offer today, except for those I have painted with my words. No matter how hard an artist or writer tries to capture the beauty and grace of Nature, nothing can compare. I think the closest we come to a true(er) expression may be through music -- perhaps Beethoven's Pastorale or Copeland's Appalachian Spring -- begin to capture the daydream that is spring.

She gathers her silks about her and retreats further into the shadows,
seeking a quiet corner to gather strength.
It is not time yet, not yet . . .