Nine years in Cincinnati, and I never lose my sense of amazement at the advent of spring. Some of that is, I am sure, due to my years spent in the west where spring (what there is of it) is harsher and less apparent to the casual observer. At a mile above sea level, in the high plains, the calendar may insist that it is spring, but the visceral experience is far less certain...
Here, in the southern reaches of the American Midwest, springtime comes to us sweetly and softly; drenched in rain; with colors that creep into view from the ground up. It is like being surrounded by an ongoing, real time impressionist painting in the making. First there is just the whispered hint of green, not really visible but implied everywhere. It is that sort of greening that cannot be seen if you look at it straight on, but turn your head and your brain will assure you that you are being stalked by verdant spirits.
After the winter we've endured, the springtime is a welcome thing. I am ready for warmer days, for lively breezes, for green and light and color. I don't imagine that the changing of the seasons will fix all that has been amiss for us, but I cannot help but believe that the return of the light will do us more good than all that cold and blowing nastiness. Welcome Springtime!