Or the painter, whose brushes are old and hardened from
use, like his grey unshaven beard, hard and coarse and rough, dipped into the
paints from his memory, his eyesight long since clouded over, but still a masterpiece
escapes his blood-red heart once again and splashes in a burgundy streak across
the raw canvas, calling.
Or the baker, whose hands are covered in flour, muscular
from years of kneading bread, his knuckles swollen and arthritic but with a
cadence as continual as the ocean’s tides, pressing out the gift of
transformation from seed dust to staff of life, the fresh scent enveloping all
who wander too close, inviting.
Or the old alchemist, whose back is bent from having
labored ceaselessly over his vials and potions, his life devoted to the Magnum
Opus, at last gazing out the window at the setting sun, the Philosophers’ Stone
finally burning into his consciousness, enlightened by the baseness of the Earth,
conjuring.
It is no different:
The peeping frogs out in the cold temporary ponds in the woods. The crimson cardinal singing out his
passionate song. The bright yellow
dandelions pushing up through the rich and muddy soil. The wolf baying at the crisp moon, haunting. The intoxicated bee flying in his bee-line,
revealing the heady pollen. The tree
buds bursting in a green riot at the warm sun.
The flowers gushing their colors across the landscape.
But it is all the same thing. The fecundity of the season leaves its mark
indelibly upon creation, regardless of age or time. It becomes an ingrained holy mantra memorized
by rote with each being wrapped up in the joy of becoming, betrothing, and begetting. Pouring out the heart and mind and body completely
in a secret love affair we often label simply as “spring,” because the sublime
truth of it all would burn us to cinders if we could somehow grasp it.
