Even back to when I was a little, I felt something about spring. When I would ask other kids in school about it, "Don't you feel it? Like ... like something is going to happen!?" I'd get the same response that I'd get to my other questions of Why do they call them mock chicken legs, do they think we'll think they're chicken legs?
Rolled eyes. Their feet that would walk away, from me. Leaning into each other and whispering, she is so weird. Why??
I can't ignore spring. Once dead branches that you'd swear would never come back are now green and fuzzy with buds. The tulips in our yard are about two inches out of the still cement cold ground. How do they push out from that? Tender, and they work their way through to what they know they need, sun and air.
Spring becomes a louder metaphor to me with each year of my life. We bore the weight of winter. The birds in the now wakening branches sing of the promises of the season to come.
The alchemist was dazed and dumbfounded, as the true meaning of the magic was revealed:
*The dead will rise from glade to glen and ancient will be young again*.
The dead had, after all, risen.
From dead and dry things there was growth, and new life everywhere.
The endlessly long winter had at last turned to spring.
From life to death and back again to life.
It was indeed the greatest magic in the world.”
― Lauren Oliver
Spring makes me smile like an old fool.
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