Despite her flair for drama, in the end March left as quietly as she came, beneath a sky of cottony gray. From the branches of the trees, the songbirds that she had welcomed sang her their farewells.
Looking about, she sent a brief sunbeam to dance across the greening lawn. Then, as if to have everything fresh and ready for April, she bathed the fields with a wash of gentle rain.
She could have left it at that. But just before she said goodbye, she turned and opened a quince bud. Then, smiling, she slipped away.
For her grand finale, March swept the sky with billowing clouds. She had shown her mastery of them, bringing us rain, bringing us snow. Now she sailed them high, in one grand dance, against a sky of springtime blue.
And as the light poured through them, the trees raised their budding limbs, and robins sang, and the wind led a chorus of Gloria! Gloria!
Let there be light. Let there be spring. Let there be life and joy.
Even though, hoping to protect her from the cold, I had buried her in leaves and broken her stem, today the tiny crocus blossomed. Hers is the first note of springtime to sing in my garden, and her music swells my heart with gratitude and soaring joy.
She is spring’s true herald, proving its determination, fulfilling our hopes, shining its beauty. What simple strength, what purity of purpose!
Welcome, little flower. Welcome!
They looked like green pan pipes poking up through the leaves and snow. One thing is certain: their music will not be denied.
The weather’s a mixed bag. March is trying on every one of her costumes, deciding what to wear for her farewell.
To be honest, we just want to see her go. Any costume at all will be fine.
The daffodils and tulips could not care less. They’re paying her no attention.
All they know is springtime. And they’re singing their little hearts out, despite the snow.
It’s not that you can’t believe your eyes. The branches are heaped with snow; it’s true. It’s just that appearances don’t tell the whole story. You have to look deeper, bring your experience to bear.
I’ve read this Author’s work before. Ms March spins quite a tale—and “spin” is the operative word. I know that in these snowy woods robins are plumped against the cold. And inside these long branches, sap flows that will turn into lilacs.
So yes to the snow and its dazzling frozen beauty. I’ll take the gifts you bring. All of them.
Morning pours itself through the mist, down the hill, wearing spring colors. Yesterday the world was bathed in snow. Which is the dream, which the reality?
What a magician you are, dear March, with your games of now-you-see-it, now-you-don’t. We blink and it’s winter, blink again and it’s spring.
And each now is splendid, and sings so gloriously the Yes. And finally we see that the Yes is the reality, regardless of the scene.
March donned her snow queen cape and danced through the woods. She couldn’t bear to go without one final fling. And who could blame her?
To disappear without giving us this last, dazzling masterpiece would have been a shame.
We woke to a wonderland , mesmerized by its beauty. We pulled on our boots and dashed outside before the coffee was even made.
Standing there, listening to the silence, we breathed our thanks, and our breath crystallized and floated away, carrying our gratitude to March and her gods.
It had taken them many days of hard flying to get here. But they were strong and skilled and everything in them drove them forward.
“Home,” something inside of them whispered. And as they flew through the winds, snow and rain, they felt its call.
Now they were here, and it was even more beautiful than they remembered, with its clear waters and tree lined banks.
Yes, this was exactly where they wanted to be. Here they would build nests, hatch goslings, and in the warmth of the unfolding spring, teach them to swim and to fish and to fly.
But today was a day of rest. So they glided on the waters , listening to the welcoming song, and they were filled with peace and gladness.
On this promise of a day, the winds play elsewhere and the bright sun plants warm kisses on the bare bark of the trees. Downstream from the spillway, geese do a slow paddle through the green stream, hope flowing behind them in watery trails.
The grass lounges in this respite from winter, poking small blades of joy into the temperate air. In the creek, the fishes come from beneath the rocks to mouth the dancing bubbles.
It will not last. From the west, the last blast of winter is rushing toward this placid scene. But today the sun is warm with promise and the world is whispering the yes of spring.
Go ahead, March, bluster as you will. Your days are numbered.
Your little blankets of midnight snow do not fool us. We shiver in laughter at your cold winds.
I know; I know. You tried to insure that the blossoms wouldn’t burst too soon, that the newly born bunnies would stay curled a bit longer in their nests.
But we’re all swept with spring fever, and returning birds are singing April’s song.
So it’s no use, this stubborn wintry ruse of yours. Let it go.
The tulips and daffodils are spilling the truth. And on the western hill, the old oak, which has seen a hundred winters, is soft with buds against your skies.