Spring means water. That falls from the sky, soaks the hills green and awakens seedlings in their faerie dance toward the sun.
April showers bring May flowers – mother always said when I was little and complaining about putting on boots and hats. Peering the grey skies never informed me of vibrant reds, blues, yellows or pinks but rather of squatting near heaters with tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich.
And the rain set my rhyming voice a-spinning. April showers last for hours. April showers dilute my powers. April showers topple towers.
When April comes, I wait for May – I wait for flowers and dream of dappled sun under leafy canopies, where the breeze whispers her secrets to me.
Christine splashes in the rain and Clancy avoids puddles
And out of the ashes, Spring has sprung. The fire that savaged and left my beloved hills scarred and black is now but a smoky memory…
Boasting fragile green under the spring sky, the hills are again alive.
I stand in the midsts of new birth, rebirth and all things green. From tender leaves on saplings to fresh blades of virgin grass.
Creatures and local denizen come out of hiding and run along backyard walls, twitching bushy tails and scanning for crusts and peanut shells. Or take for the sky to revel the green below—settling on branches to sing their springtime ditties.
And now there lives a singing tree—that serenades me nightly as the sun saunters away from day and the moon moves in with silver light.
Jasmine blooms open and perfume the air in sweet repose as feathered friends tuck in the kiddies for the night. I hear them wooing their babies to sleep with chirps-twitters-fluttering wings. The magical tree safely ensconses the tiny warblers in dense foilage—keeping out bullies, making the world safe for babies not yet ready to fly.
Christine has found spring too