Spring is new beginnings. It is that peculiar and excited chirp of birds. That pixie-like dust of joy peppered over your step. Spring is the way simple things, like iced coffee in the middle of the afternoon, and a jaunt to an arriving train, that forces you to shed a layer or two, makes your soul inconceivably joyous. Spring is writing well into the evening on the back porch with a vintage duster and a half-glass of rosé. Spring, happens to be the birth and nurturing of new place in time.
According to the farmer’s almanac, this isn’t spring. Spring isn’t on her way just yet, and so, these last few days that have melted into two weeks, should be savored like a hot winter’s soup. We’ll have more of those to come, they say. And while these last glorious days are much larger signs, there is this part of me that has hopped on this train with a an accepted kind of ignorance, and all-too-well knowledge. I must enjoy the moment.
Spring, according to the person that sits with a warm laptop on her knees, under a cracked dusty window, with a kettle ready to sing it’s way through the apartment, is a promise that seasons change, and with it, people too. It isn’t all bad, but it sure is welcomed. Whatever this is.