Sapphic Springtime

April 5, 2010

Of all the seasons– those four familiar sisters– my heart and soul belong to Spring. Throughout the harsh infancy of the year, I dream faithfully of her soft kisses, emboldened colors, and callow heat.

It is for Spring only that I endure Summer’s burning gaze, Autumn’s rusty advances, Winter’s icy breaths through double-paned glass, down comforters, and long underpants.

It is Spring who I invite inside; ask to stay a little longer; slip into something more comfortable. This gentle season, this temperate mistress.

In diffident disclosure, slowly she permits demure gazes into her ethereal blues, greens, and browns. Languid moments of savory trepidation between Spring’s dark worried tears and her bold imitations of sister Summer. Those times the whole world seems in love.

Spring awakens with no urgency. She slowly rubs the remainder of the winter from her eyes. She sighs. Yawns. A nearly imperceptible shift in the rhythmic breathing of the globe. She blinks. Stretches. Smiles.

She reaches out for the heat of the cosmos. Yearns for the affection of the day, which gladly reciprocates her desires, leaving the light on just a little longer. Spring speaks sweetly with the callous ground, caressing his deep faults, coercing from him life long forgotten. She perfumes the breeze and sends out invites to her Debutante ball.

Spring’s vitality, her decidedly resplendent aura, permeates the troposphere. The volatile gases of our greenhouse, falling madly in love, put the sign out on the door. Winter’s chromatic greyscale gives way to the playful spectrum. Spring can do little to suppress her true intentions, blushing wildly and begging for a full release.

And, between those deliriously sober early mornings and the ever-retreating dewy dusks, Spring finds her voice and cries out. The birds, the bugs, the belladonna– all awaken to her primal call. Cacophonous symphonies of frogs reply.  In a ritual as old as time, this reticent season caves to her sybaritic desires. Voyeuristically, we gaze on. We revel in her unapologetic fervor, we bask in the light of her ardent earthly urge. The leaves return to the trees just in time to catch her climax. Rivers and streams wantonly devour their banks, white-capped and unrestrained. The flowers throw themselves at the feet of this rapturous performer.

Spring has come.

Hope its as good for you as it is for me.