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 Spring As the peepers fill the spring evenings with their shrill song—gleefully announcing the warmth of waters in their soggy habitats—I can't help but feel the tug to tour the woodlands. There are few greater gifts than the early spring sight of fern fiddleheads unfurling and soon-to-be-flowering perennials poking their nascent stems of fine freshness through the rich moistness of decayed leaves and humus, anxious to reach the renewed warmth offered by the sun as the days grow longer. So I go and I smell the richness, the odor of decay reformed. I feel the urge—that primitive call of Nature—to view new birth, to participate in the rites of celebration for new life bestowed, rising into existence. My nostrils bulge and I breathe slowly, deeply, grabbing every morsel of aroma that floats mid-air. I taste it. I feel it in my gut. I absorb it. Life—wrought by Spirit. Life—born to live in dying. Life—springs eternal. |
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