The energy somehow feels lighter now. Like we’ve all been holding our breath and expelled it in a great sigh of relief. Like when the rain sweeps in and leaves things fresh and clear. Like that moment after the house is clean, steps swept, windows washed, and you sit down finally to rest.
Spring is here. The world is poetry again. Baby birds glide by on the river, leaving gold-flaked sun-lit eddies in their wake. The blossom drips, honey-soaked sweet from the trees. The hills, lushly green and chocolate brown, like an oil painting under a kaleidoscopic sunset.
It’s time to walk. Let the sun begin to gild our skin. Time to pick bouquets of flowers. Drag out the picnic basket from the back of the cupboard. Dance with bare feet splashing through muddy puddles for the joy of it. Time to fall in love again. Make art on naked bodies, slippery with sweat. Make your art on canvas. Draw with your words.
This is Spring.
