Spring is a time for growth and renewal, as the clutches of winter recedes and the plants and animals begin to thrive again.
Spring for me is a time of messiness as the cold seeps away and the warmth starts to envelope the world, a war between two sides that leaves the earth bloodied and bruised in its wake.
Streams of water from melting snow course along the earth, leaving veins of mud that snake through the ground.
The sun battles the clouds for dominance over the sky. Each rainstorm pushes back the dryness of summer, each ray of sun casts out the bitterness of winter.
There is a certain grayness to everything, like seeing a black and white photograph of the aftermath of some historical battle. A way to distance ourselves from the turmoils of nature.
Snow starts to melt, and then refreezes, and then melts again, turning the roads into a dangerous place, full of hazards and traps for the unwary.
And yet the sun always wins, summer always comes again, and it isn’t long until the reaches of winter have faded, and the blood red buds turn into shoots of bright green. Flowers begin to bloom in all the colors of love, and bees and butterflies flit about, collecting nectar and pollen.
Once the aftermath of battle begins to fade away, the true beauty of nature shows itself again, and the grey fades away, leaving behind a canvas of bright colors and pleasant scents.
Is there anything quite like the smells of fresh flowers wafting on a breeze? Or the colors of a thousand different petals blending into one smear of a painting?
Is there anything quite like a soft breeze caressing your cheek after it tickles the small leaves of growing trees?
There is a beauty in the beginnings of spring, not in spite of the mess of a war between seasons, but because of it.
The sounds of raindrops drumming the beat to the marches of seasonal armies. Birds that sing their battle cries, as they return from their journeys. Watching rivets of water carve their way through the earth, not caring what they pass through, just streaming endlessly and always.
There is no perfume that captures the scent of a field after a rainstorm, or any jewel that glistens like a water droplet on a flower’s petal.
There is no feeling that embodies the softness of baby animals exploring their world for the first time, nor any taste that compares to the saltiness of angels tears that fall from heaven.
No music will capture the war cries of the birds or the marching beat of rain.
There is no way to perfectly describe the sound of a bumblebee drifting from flower to flower. I have no hope to capture the feeling of planting your bare feet into the blankets of grass that wave along to the music of the wind.
But I try anyways, in the same way that winter tries to keep its hold on the earth for one more day, one more week, one more month, one more season.
I hope that the sunshine will come and illumine me, I hope that it will come and dance on my skin. I hope that the clouds will fade away, and I hope that the flowers will bloom forever.
The clouds will come once more, the flowers will lose their petals and turn grey, and the seasons will turn, folding in on themselves, repeating endlessly until the impossibility of infinity washes them away.
Until then I can only stand in the midst of a war and hope that I don’t become a casualty of the seasons.