It is spring in Central Oregon. The sunning is shining down through a soft blue sky. Laundry hangs fresh on the line, lilacs and bleeding hearts embellish a glass vase upon the table, their perfuming floating. The backdoor sits open, the patio chairs send out an invitation to stop and revel under the warming sun. Birds chirp, tweet and flutter in the trees; from the birdbath. Bees are buzzing and busy flitting and finding.
Spring springs and the delights are in the being, in the unhurried moments of May-time laughter as color pushes from the earth. Before the headiness of summer and the full bloom sways us, spring enters in her quiet un-contrived way. And it is all the better in the waiting her return. Oh ~ I live for just these days as one unfolds after another as petals in the bud.
Spring invokes poetry – The poetry of Spring in all her quiet glory; her accolades are heralded far and wide. For who can herald rebirth without spring and where would we find the first notes to sing her praise.