The sun pours down like butterscotch on our Mother the Earth as the golden touch of light gently caresses a new day. This side of Springtime is a colorful, fragrant memory of dancing wild beauty held in the mirror of our hearts. Mist fills the valleys, creeping up the hillsides from the streams and deep meadows as though floating out of a gentle dream. A wind is born, fresh and clean and young, as if it had never before been breathed by any living thing; newly made from snowy mountain peaks under a dome of stars.
The smell of the distant woodlands becomes increasingly aromatic as the sun
rises out of the mist that lays thick upon the world. The new green of spring begins to
appear in the fields and on the tips of the tree's fingers. The plan of the acorn is to
the oak as Mother Nature is to her tomorrows. She never forgets, for what she does now is
a part of what she has had in mind for thousands of years.
She is a gentle voice just on the edge of our hearing with footsteps like a stream flowing gently over the cool stones and her song is of glad water falling like silver into the night from a bright morning in the hills. She is ready to give birth to yet another Springtime at the right moment, nudged into motion by the wind. We will know it as a fragile blade of grass, a leaf quivering delicately on its Mother tree, as a frolicking new-year fawn in an open glade.
Copyright © 1988-2000 Barbara A. Smith and John G. Hipps. All rights reserved.
This essay was first published April 5, 1989 in the Free-Press Courier, Westfield, Pennsylvania.