the world will soon be turning green, a host of colors too, and all with the vibrancy of life offering itself in bloom, a show of new beginnings. It’s my favorite time of year and winter made worth of its endure. Yet I see it’s not a season set apart, special to me for its lengthened days and warmth, but it still holds a winter’s edge. Nothing can be rushed and early seasons show me this — it’s a time when things are urged forth, the gentle touch of sun pulling to a bud, birds feeding their hungry young, knowing it’s not yet time their time for flight. It’s a tender, fragile season, new life not quite taken hold.
it seems at time I’m just as fragile, another season on edge.
to urge is the way of nature, nothing forced further than it needs to be, just a touch more sun to lengthen days, a bit of warmth calling for the word to green. Life can only be the way it is, and it’s not for me to urge it faster. My own bloom will follow the seasons. I am urged to the point patience, tender as the new bud, and perfect in my present display. Life calls to me to be what I am, but only for this moment. The season of grace is always now.
yes, the world will soon be turning green. It’s my favorite time of year. But this moment is what I have and there’s no need for it to be other than what it is now. It’s the perfect bud, urged to its present display, and not a moment further.
right now is the only season offered.