I didn't think much about spring before living in Provence. In New York there was just a sort of animal pressure of instincts awoken but not connected after a long winter. In Paris, well, there was rain and gray shining tin rooftops. Puddles seeping in the sides of shoes.
But here, here one can believe in spring. Reborn, shake off your shoddy skin and risk a lot kind of feelings. Because it is everywhere, all around and it would be unwise not to echo. Only an utter grouch is capable of being impervious to such a slow unfurling of beauty's palm.
On just another evening a few weeks ago, we followed the siren song out into the country to take a second gander at a field that had appeared a soft pink blur in passing. A field that we had passed hundreds of times but apparently never, ever at just the right time. For what grew up and around us soon made us forget that we could have ever seen it otherwise.
The perfume. Enough to make you fall down into the many random sinkholes dotting the property. Belly-buttons of the earth but best to pay attention. Listen to the advice of the bees buzzing all around in fine feast form.
Let the light whither, I am safe here to dream. Let it go so that I can sleep and wonder what better ways might lie in front of me?
All calm. Treasures in the palm of a fallen blossom, lift your head to the wind.
Winding away but with petals in my pocket, we watched the sun bow down to kiss the buds goodnight.