© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2014
The past several years my lament has been the same-I want spring, a proper spring, a spring with its share of sunny yet still cool days where one travels with a light sweater. I want days of gentle breezes on tender blades of grass. I want days with the flow of spring blossoms, from crocuses to tulips to irises and poppies, to alliums and spirea and to the night call of honeysuckle. I want a spring that starts with quietly emerging spikes of fresh green from a ground savoring the drops of melted snow and slow to let loose its hold of that chalice, winter’s gift to the new season’s life. I want a spring with softly blustery skies, that tease and wink and release their tears of joy, the gentle drops of rain that awaken the canopy of green, the drops that paint the bark of trees and the earth below them dark with the rich smell of life. I want gentle drops like the drops of white blossoms dotting the ground, swaying to the side as the grass stretches out of its imitation of death to fool the harsh winter winds. I want to walk with the song of my soul dancing with the symphony of the earth around, the soft swishing of the grass as it grows, reaching up from the ground to the warmth above, the soft call, the mystic music of the morning birds, quietly beginning when all is still dark, calling you from the night, from the night of all past seasons and to the mystic dawn of this day and of all the days before and yet to come.
But days have changed. This is a new climate, a climate of extremes. This year, as in other years the spring comes too late and is gone, too soon. My spring is gone, all too soon. Today, near the end of May, as I drove home from work I saw and smelled June. Summer is here.