The season's first blossom has arrived, and my heart sings a new soft hymn. Every part of the year is a show of love, but there's something so gently romantic about the love in August, in the fresh young spring. It makes a person inclined to believe any good may be possible.
I am slowly filling my garden with new flowers ... violets, daisies, primula, pansies ... and my imagination with new stories too. Some of these have a plot, but the truth is in spring I tend to mostly sink into imagery and mood, rather than outright narrative. I guess it's part of that soft hymn I mentioned. Come winter, I will have more to say again. Words as if for draping along bare branches. Words like shine for the waters. Right now, I am rather muted by adoration.
But then, when all's considered, there are really only two words the seasons tell us, and our hearts tell us, and we tell each other in the important moments of our lives. Love and faith. What else matters? They are the promise we are given through our winters, and the fulfillment we see in blossom. Maybe that is why spring can bring such joy. It's a holy joy. We see, when we look up at the bare trees now swathed with pink, white, scarlet, that our faith in the cold dark was met as always with flowers, and our love gives worth to all.