Begin afresh, afresh, afresh

Psimont may complain about the weather, but I think it's beautiful; it's nothing like summer, it's pure spring. The air is still fresh, still shivery in the shade; and the light still has that raw edge of winter sun, low rays shining through the trees, pouring dappled light on to the dewy grass.

For me, spring is full of promise, of new life, of reaching out and grasping at every burst of light, every bud, every unfurling leaf. Summer, by contrast, is lethargic and slow; the summer sun weighs heavy on even the brightest flowers, and the summer air is cloying, oppressive, thick with decadence and disappointment. Summer promises everything and fails to deliver; but with Spring every sunbeam is an unexpected gift, every snowdrop is a diamond in the dirt, every moment of warmth is a swift and fierce embrace from a new love.

So why does light through new leaves bring tears to my eyes? Because the beginning is always the beginning of the end, the wheel always turns. No matter how free and clear the air feels, no matter how the sun sparkles on the river or shines on budding romances; no matter how lightly the hours pass, still they pass.

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