Edges of Springtime
Here in Connecticut, we’re at the very edge of springtime; the last of the brown, fallow resting. The wind blows often, and there is rain with a few warm days now and then to soften the ground. Mostly, a chill remains. To walk along a quiet road through places like this is to remember the perfection of it all. I don’t need to name things. That would only distract me from what is, or worse remove the wonder. It’s enough to know that seeds land best when their flight is left to the wind, and sow only as the rain wets the earth. It’s enough to see the young shoots of a crocus spear a dead leaf that once covered its place in the dirt. It’s enough to witness miracles.
In a couple of weeks there will be color. Greens will displace the browns and then deepen from lime to emerald. A whole great palette of buds will speckle the trees. Even the sky will seem bluer. The air will warm even as the afternoon breezes come through, gradually shifting from north to west and then south. There is a commotion brewing as sure as the autumn told of a coming rest. It is a thing to move into, to make a pilgrimage of, and to note well.
Sometimes I think my time spent walking is frivolous, but how else to know the real, the eternal, the changeless ways, but to move through the temporal? How better to open the thin places I carry closer than thoughts? I’ve learned well that there is no limit to what can happen in the space of a single step. I’ll walk on.
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