It’s happened again. Spring. Just when we thought it would never arrive, we inhale the soft warm air and let it seep into our lungs. We have exhaled the cold visible breaths of winter, sidestepped the watery mud. We admire the green stretches of lawn which have sprung up overnight from the dust colored dry grass.
It was a long hard winter. Staying indoors by the fire was preferable to stepping outdoors where the temperature hovered at zero degrees for days on end. Then spring teased us, emerging in disguise in a few days in April, only to evaporate and cede its ground to the last rites of winter. Now that it is May 1, we feel more confident that spring is here to stay. Gone is the pale thin light of the winter sun. Gone the boots, the mittens, the hats; they too look worn out by the effort of keeping us warm all winter.
Now, as we step out, we feel the warmth of the rays of the golden spring sun on our faces. Like a plant, we lean forward to capture this solar power and convert it into energy. A little brisk breeze can still be felt in the shade, or when the breeze lifts off the barely thawed blue lake. But it’s not serious, just a reminder of what we left behind. How alive the lake looks, waves jumping and glistening, compared to the hard scarred surface of winter. The lake is high and generous, yielding the flotsam and jetsam that float up to shore, the debris of the last season, revealing our human traces.
The first flower of spring of course is the crocus which emerges early, but lasts briefly, as if fading from the exhausting effort required to protrude from the melting snow. Yet, each year, I wish I had planted hundreds of them. But I am grateful for those few that my eyes rest on. They send the message that the worst of winter is over and that the daffodils are soon to come. Unlike a summer garden, a spring display of tulips and daffodils is set against a background of dark bare earth; there is no other foliage in competition.
As I drive from Burlington to Midddlebury, the lemon yellow tint of the weeping willow stands out against the pastel green fields. The trees long tresses are carefully combed at a slant, swayed by the slightest breeze, trimmed to fall a few feet from the ground. Small buttons of buds are now visible up close. They look as if primed to burst, about to unfurl their lacey leaves. The brown studded corn field, looking like a canvas painted by Van Gogh, looks ready to be turned over, ready for new planting.
Yes spring is really here. A time to breath deeply, to walk lightly, and to rejoice, that once again, there is rebirth.
Madeleine May Kunin is a former governor of Vermont.