And Spring arose on the garden fair,

Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;

And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast

rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.

— Percy Bysshe Shelley

And what are those gossamer, green, new leaves and tufts of pink on the farther shore but dreams realized? Not only those of trees and flowers but ours as well, that have awakened to yet another season of hope. And what to make of the light that sets later each day, gilding the tops of pine and pond alike, and of the thousands of tiny, coruscated wavelets that move at the wind’s whim?

Of the seasons, spring is one of celebration, of winter hardships once more left behind and of long and languorous days yet to come, months to look forward to of balmy breezes and warm nights, of bird symphonies at dawn and insects humming us to sleep at night, of walks and long drives and life lived mostly outside in sweet liberation. It is color splashed once more across a landscape long draped in nothing but white or brown, nature raiding her closet and bringing out her finest wraps and shawls as she readies herself for the grand ball called summer, her coming out.

Each day, the red tufts on the maple trees open a little more, and the emerging chartreuse on the birches grows in intensity toward a final grand unfurling. The Earth is close to publishing the poem she has been working on for months now, trimming away the superfluous, revealing the gem that is her heart’s song, her masterpiece.

A heron glides majestically into a small cove nearby, and Canada geese wing just above the pond’s surface, honking to others basking along the shore. Red-winged blackbirds chortle from the reeds while woodpeckers tap out their “good mornings” along the trunks of old pines and mourning doves coo the day into being as the sun rises. Phoebes perch on a nearby branch, tail feathers bobbing, never far from the nest, and chipping sparrows forage along the ground for treats too small for other birds to bother with.

To meteorologists and others who dabble in such things, spring is a time of increasing temperatures and increased day lengths, factors that set them apart from the other three seasons here in the northeast and other places where March signals a period of reawakening. But to others, it is more than that. It is the fulfillment of a promise that April made when she merely teased with burgeoning buds and mere hints of what was to come.

For no matter how many winters we withstand and springs we ultimately welcome, the magic never fades and the image never dulls. Each year, without fail, nature turns to yet another fresh, blank page, pen ready in hand, and it is left for us to seek her out and absorb what she wrote there.

— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Lyman, who enjoys exploring the woods of southern Maine, can be reached via email at rachell1950@yahoo.com.