As I think about what to write, it's interesting that in order to stay away from the details of my emotions and personal particulars, I default to offering a commentary about the weather. What a cliche, right? It plays out in social collections over and over, in every culture, in every class, in every imagined conglomerate. And even here where my faceless listeners are generations away, in order to say something about how I feel without revealing the unlovely details of my psyche - I use the weather as an allegory, a symbol, a prop. It works I guess.
Spring is change, it's fickle. Spring is new and predictable. The mornings are cold and the afternoons are cheerfully sleepy. The evenings bring fresh breezes and windy promise. Spring ages quickly as she learns the colors of hot summer and her gentle green moves daily to fixed brown. Delicate blossoms drop every minute and their exposed, verdant leaves promise vivid Autumn.
With this constant change before my eyes, I can still dare to be impatient, to speed the moments along. What is this thanklessness? This non-recognition?
This morning I pray for a gentle heart, for fresh eyes, for a verdant spirit - unafraid of the change that is born in every morning - completely conscious of the age, the heat, the anchored, the vivid colors that will define the day at close.
Spring comes again.
Morning rises.
The rhythm is consolation.
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