Once again we come to our celebration of fertility. Bulbs are popping and the world seems shiny and new. At least that is how my 7 year-old describes it: Shiny.
For my part, I agree. The sun in the sky is stronger, the whirling, cotton forms of clouds don’t conceal its glow for long, they can only cast shadows before fleeing hurriedly south. The buds on the trees welcome the sun’s return and there are sprays of forsythia everywhere. Dread old man winter is gone. At least for now.
As if we were standing smartly before the gates of Buckingham at 11:30 sharp, we are treated to a changing of the guard.
Out marches the hoary, frozen old grump. And in his place comes to stand the young, shining, flower clad spring maiden. All is made new. To celebrate, we color eggs, take walks, plan gardens and summer trips, take in the sight of emerging spring flowers, venture out for dinner in bare legs and raincoats … in other words, we perform her rituals.
Tonight when I came home I was greeted by a robin, the early bird, and a mourning dove keeping company like old friends in the yard under a blossoming cherry tree, the sun still above the tree line behind them. They seemed plump, satisfied with their prospects, relaxed and occupied with whatever they were turning up there under the tree. Worms? Seeds? Whatever they find – they are welcome dinner guests.