Hear that wind? Not too loud—just a pleasant puff of air that slides across your ears like a whisper. Like pursed lips blowing syllables of fresh thoughts that tickle and excite.
Your hair dances at the sound. Tiny strands lead, lifting and flailing against earlobes and eyebrows.
The nape of your neck shivers as tender fingers of gentle gusts twist and tousle the longer hair. Eyelashes wave and wiggle like lazy hula dancers.
Smells of life sail through sunshine and shadow. They drift along thawing rivers and twirl around budding bushes, grabbing snippets of fresh life. And when the air is plump with hints of these telling scents, it scampers closer and offers itself to you.
Your nostrils flare, the hollows of your lungs expand, and you can almost taste the tartness of the odors as they flow inside.
Lift your face to the sky. Sunlight looks different now—or maybe it just shines on different things. Clouds of cottony animals scramble for attention, begging to be pointed to and named.
The breeze gives them wings. They gallop. Swim. Stretch eagerly across a cornflower blue canvas. Your imagination wakes from its dull nap and gasps at what you see.
Clumps of mint-green grass break through cracked dirt. Wriggling worms sunbathe through the slender blades. Birds dart between budding branches and test each one for nest-worthiness.
Forsythias lead the way with a burst of yellow; lilacs and azaleas dare to show hints of the colors they are hiding inside, braving the cool nights in anticipation of morning’s nurturing heat.
Warmth, better than you’ve felt in months, soaks into your skin. Eager arms reach out from tired sleeves; toes wiggle blindly in suffocating darkness, begging to feel the sun again.
Necks strain forward—turtle-determined—to bask in the heat that bounces from spongy yards, muddied pavements, and the crumbled, leftover leaves of winter.
You remember giggles. Walks along flower-bordered paths. Flying kites and floating bobbers. The smile you’ve kept bundled beneath months of musty blankets makes its way to the surface of your soul and bursts into springtime like a soap bubble.
The world is alive again. And so are you. But not the “waiting” kind of alive that sits quietly in front of a flickering fire. No. This is a RUNNING-YELLING-GASPING alive.
And all of this reminds you just how blessed you are to see another spring.
Contact Robin at firstname.lastname@example.org