The silly calendar had been trying to tell me for about a month and a half that it is Spring. Silly calendar. Doesn’t it know that Spring means flowers, and colors, and aromas, and rain, and warm weather? It mustn’t have realized what it was talking about.
The calendar kept rejoicing ‘Its spring! Its spring!’ all excited about what was to come. Calendars have had pictures of flowers hanging there, taunting me, since March. Silly calendar. If only it could have looked out the window and seen how foolish it was being.
We had snow on the ground in March. The trees hadn’t put on their leaves. The grass was dull, and rough. The gardens were empty, the dirt in them lonely. The sky was gray.
Sometimes April remembered what she was supposed to be like. Not so much fooling around as March, but still. Her air was usually chilly, just enough so that you had to wear a jacket no matter how much you didn’t want to.
Every so often she was nostalgic for Springs past. Her air was warm, her skies clear and blue. But April likes to play jokes, I’ve found. She enjoys giving days that cause unnecessary impatience for May and June, only to laugh when the days are once again chilly, and annoying, and more like January than June.
And the silly calendar thought that was spring.
But March and April have had their fun. They have embarrassed the poor calendar enough. Their times have come and gone. May has arrived.
May is sneaky. She is quiet and beautiful. She creeps up quietly and enjoys showing herself suddenly.
Seemingly overnight trees are covered in blankets of green. Others blossom in white and pink. Gardens are dancing with color as countless types of flowers live and grow. Grass is lush, and thick, and glorious. Her sky is a blue that is impossible to find anywhere else. Smells from numerous blossoms dance in the warm air.
The calendar has been telling me that its spring for about a month and a half. Silly calendar. But now, finally, the weather concurs.