I love the willow trees the most, bare one day the next a stream of green rivers cascading to the ground.
Pears, plums, and redbud span a spectrum of clean crisp white to deep purple bursting out of the gray monotony.
Daffodils in every shade of yellow turn their faces to the sun, collecting rays in their open cups.
A mockingbird practices runs of every melody and sound he has ever heard, showing off his talents for all of us, but especially I suspect for that special some-bird.
Dawn cracks the window a bit earlier and my two chirping birds rise more easily - at least for a few weeks until we push forward to take full advantage of the afternoon light.
It happens so suddenly. Wasn't it just weeks ago that the ground lay covered knee-deep with white and dormant tree branches sacrificed their limbs to the snow-creatures on display?
Now I look out and see the beginnings of a crayon-colored spring, like a half-finished picture my child works on with her rainbow in a box.
Yesterday I stood outside and turned my face to the sun, soaking in the warmth, the light and feeling my own soul spring to life. I pay too little attention, but my being corresponds to the seasons of the earth. The colors burst forth suddenly, with possibilities that have lain dormant through the cold and the dark.
The world and I, we are waking up. It is Spring.