Everything has a season. And each season has its thing. Each contains hazards and beauties— Each a flourish that’s distinct. – Winter might seem standoffish with all her sharp, icy edges. But winter crochets snowflakes to decorate the landscape. Her … Continue reading
I love the way trees receive snow, Holding it so generously in their boughs. Wearing it like confection or cotton or a slick lacquer. Letting playful dollops drop when it gets warmer.
Spring never fails to impress me. I marvel at it yearly. To watch as once barren branches that looked incapable of life when coated with winter’s snow or sparkling sheets of ice suddenly explode with puffs and petals—blossoming overnight—is an … Continue reading
If I can’t walk along a sandy beach, let me trudge through stark white snow. What a satisfying sensation. What a scrumptious crunching sound. If I can’t stand in the sun and bask in its strong heat, let me feel … Continue reading
If spring were a metaphor, it would mean hope and possibility. It reminds me that the harsher things (like winter’s biting winds) are temporary.
Spring proves new things are possible. That apparent death can yield life. That branches which look hard and barren today can bear downy blossoms almost overnight.
When I need hope, I look to spring. Teeming with assertions of life, it is the season of new and renewed things. Touching us with warmer weather like a loving hand. Bringing us outdoors again as it thaws the land.
If spring were a simile, she’d be like a generous friend. Offering the perfume of aromatic blooms and their lavish hues. Giving the subtle lengthening of days. Dulling the chill in the air and producing hydrating rain.
If spring had a song, it would be the birds’ morning melodies. And the percussion would be the sound of raindrops hitting everything.
I have love for all the seasons, but I’m especially fond of spring. It is full of meaningful metaphors and inspiring similes.
Spring is a triumph of life. It’s like seeing the world reborn. It’s a love letter to the living. However harsh the winter, spring will always come.
I don’t mind the snow. It looks like the sky celebrating—tossing down flakes like rice at a wedding—or like celebratory confetti. Indeed, it will turn to ice or slush, but first it’s new, a clean blanket of white covering the … Continue reading
Fall has descended. Her leaves are promiscuous with color. Trees adorned in provocative hues Are roused by the wind, Shuddering and flirting with the sky’s blue. It is the final act of autumn, Casting off her verdant clothing. Bare … Continue reading
A moment of silence for the passing of winter. Her season has ended, so we bid her farewell. She will be best remembered for her beautiful snow coverings—her unique bleached tapestries. She could coat anything in white—from cars to homes … Continue reading
I don’t have a favorite season. I enjoy the perks (and suffer the slings and arrows) of each one in its time. That said, there’s something special about spring. The snows recede, the birds sing. And each bird’s song sounds … Continue reading
I don’t mind the snow. Precipitation is winter’s prerogative. At best, snow is a beautiful blanket of promise. At worst, it’s a cumbersome inconvenience. What peeves me is what some people choose to do (or not do) with this solid … Continue reading