Dreaming of the wild geese, April took on their form, spread her wings and rose into the sky, setting a course for the North Star.
Once she reached it, she would slide across the dimensional planes and glide to the Garden of the Seasons. There she would be inducted into the Sisterhood of the Months by those who had previously served on Earth. She looked forward to the celebration and to sharing her impressions and adventures.
Her stay had been more thrilling than she could ever have imagined that it would be. She thought of the myriad life forms that she had awakened and helped to birth – the tiny sprouts and buds, the bursting eggs, the singing birds and croaking peepers, the creatures of the woods, the cheerful flowers.
As she made her flight, stretching her wings one last time across the horizon, she bade Earth’s beautiful children farewell, tears of tender affection glistening in her eyes.
“May you know, dear ones, how precious you are,” she whispered as she disappeared into the starlight. “May you know how deeply you are loved.”
A third of the year had to pass to usher in this day. Snows had to melt, ice turn to water, the earth tip toward the sun.
The living things who stayed in the cold places slept, dreaming dreams of what they would become when they woke, what babies they would bear, what new fruits they would produce. They slept deeply and long.
And their dreams invited the little life forms that longed for expression on earth. And the frost birds carried the seeds of them into the sleeping ones’ waiting vessels, where the seeds slept too, practicing their life forms in their dreams.
Sweet April had sung them awake. And now the world was astir with the word that the magical May Queen was coming. A shiver of excitement rippled through the forests and fields and every living thing was sure that it stood on the brink of something wonderful.
Except for singing a few rain songs to her babies, April’s work was done. She could spend her last days enjoying the beauty of the life forms that she had wakened and birthed.
She walked barefoot across the manicured lawns that sparkled with morning dew. She laughed at the tulips bobbing in the sunshine, their deep cups drinking the light and spilling over with laughter.
She floated above the fields and through the woods, alive with the happy flutters of mating birds, and saw the little violets and spring beauties at play, and, of course, the buttery coltsfoot and dandelions.
She was pleased, knowing that May would arrive to world awake and eager to greet her. But she wanted to leave something special for her friend, a crowning touch for all this burgeoning beauty. And so, at the woodland’s edge, she waved her hand over a little patch of waking trillium, and closing her eyes, made a special wish. And there before her eyes, it opened, a rare and gorgeous trillium in shades of royal burgundy and green. And kissing its petals, she whispered her thanks and floated away.
Unlike the human beings, the trees have no need to remember.
Regardless of the season, whether they are dormant or swelling with new growth, every fiber of their being holds its awareness of why it is here and what it has come to do. Every leaf, every twig, every limb, every tendril and root knows that it is a part of the whole and that it makes its contribution.
And the tree knows that it is connected to the earth and to the earth’s waters and to her creatures, great and small, and to the sky above and to its clouds and stars, its sun and rain, wind and snow.
Except for human beings, all living things remember. Their souls are whole and one with the greater whole from which they emerge and which they serve in joy.
And that is why they live in ecstasy and die in rapture and endlessly sing the Yes in praise.
This instant, where narcissus dance in the springtime breeze, is a gift, unique in all of time. Oh there are variations and dances as sweet, no doubt. But this one is now, right where I am, and it sings to the center of my soul.
How lucky I am, to be alive amidst flowers in the sunshine, in the springtime, in the breeze. Of all the worlds and all the moments, how blessed I am to be here, how grateful and filled with joy.
Even when all reason leaves the world, spring comes. Even when men are captured by the madness of war, blossoms open.
The earth has witnessed our rise and fall before. She knows of our terrible confusion. Even so, the songbirds mate, the fishes spawn. This is earth’s way of infusing us with hope, of encouraging us to keep on keeping on.
To remind us that we are deeply loved, despite ourselves, she sends forth waves of sweet grasses and flowers. Heavenly fragrances waft in the wind, and delicate petals sing of grace.
In her heart, earth continues to believe that one day we will get it right. And in the meantime, she will ever send us spring and rainbows.
It was the first day of April’s last week. All the months arrive on Earth prepared for any eventuality. They are schooled in the vagaries of Earth’s weather. Still, as April surveyed the scene around her, she shook her head in amazement at the challenges she had met during her stay.
The little flowers had complained of the cold and didn’t want to wake at all. Even the buds on the trees were stubborn. She had to sing waking songs for many more days than she had planned.
Nevertheless, at last everything was on schedule. The trees were tracing lacy patterns against the sky, the cherry blossoms and daffodils had opened. The songbirds were arriving by the hour. And today, April laughed to see the first batch of dandelions roaring their sunsongs from the lawns and fields.
She was pleased, and satisfied that she had done her best. And that was all, she knew, that was ever expected.
The little joy-bringers roll bright as snow across the woodland’s floor. Over the hillsides they tumble by the hundreds, tiny chimes of light and cheer, ushering in spring, ushering in a cascade of new life so huge that it exceeds imagination.
How delicate these beauties, these sweet heralds of spring! How unassuming and gentle, how simple and pure! Yet what unparalleled happiness they bring!
The grasses, seeing them, wear tears of sparkling joy and robins raise their morning songs in praise.
Here, as the year births into being, green lace bursts lightly from the boughs. The brook carries little fishes and the bullfrog’s bold song, and sky blue tumbles down the hills and into the laughing waters.
This is the land of the beaver and coyote, of the rabbits and raccoons. Here hawks sail overhead and singing birds fill the trees’ branches. And now, as the April midwifes the year’s green into being, the hearts of all creatures sing.
It is springtime, and all the earth is glad. It is spring. It is spring. It is spring.
The periwinkles were among the very first flowers to open to Spring’s call. They loved that they got to be as blue as sky and to beam white stars from their centers.
In fact, they loved love. They spread the rays of friendship, and comfort and healing wherever they bloomed. Children adored them and chanted their name, laughing. Lovers sought their magic, tucking them away as charms, sleeping with pressed blossoms in their pillows. Old women believed that they kept evil spirits away. And they were right.
For who could be anything but true and kind in the face of such sweet beauty?