Spring is found in small resurrections,
The insistence of life anew, a bud, a leaf, a flower.
One raindrop, one last winter tear, merging with another,
Surging, overflowing, transformational, and true,
As unstoppable as the sunrise or a baby’s laugh, a miracle.

Spring is the flutter of butterflies freed,
Tantalizing warbles and chirps building to a family song.
One bud bursting, one finite flower erupting into resurgence,
Ripe with infinity and star dust, an everlasting promise.
Spring is found in small resurrections.

Spring always fills me with poignant yearnings, joyous bubbles of happiness rising to the surface amidst winter regrets, even bringing a poem or two.  I wander through my garden looking at new sproutings of chartreuse and celadon poking through the soil, at the fuchsia flowers on the redbud tree, and the ephemeral cerise and citron lace barely visible on tree limbs popping into view after the rain.  In fleeting seconds, March becomes April creating a canopy of leaves.

I wait for it every year, watch it unfold day by day. It fills my heart with exquisite anticipation that somehow is even sweeter than the fulfillment that is promised. It always makes me wonder why spring is in such a hurry.

And then Easter brings a family visit and I understand everything. Just like spring, the long weekend flies by. Coloring eggs, games and stories and goodnight kisses, family breakfasts, sandwich upon sandwich, adventures in the garden and an Easter egg hunt followed by creamed parsleyed potatoes, ham, and spring asparagus for Easter dinner with strawberry shortcake for desert.

The twins are ten now so the Bunny has had to find more creative hiding places and like always they tell their mother, “This was the best Easter ever.”  And it was. Yet, almost as fast as it began they leave, back to home, and work. and school. The lightning pace abates for me and we are back to ordinary time.

So much of life is ordinary time, immeasurable in its progression except in retrospect, days marching onward in routine sameness, one indistinguishable from the next with weekend punctuation.Why is time such a puzzle? The rare fast and furious eruptions islands in the petty pace of the everyday, markers of change.

It was only two seconds ago, wasn’t it, when we moved here? The twins weren’t even two and our granddaughters were 5 and 7. Now, after eight years of Easter egg hunts and multiple versions of our fairy garden, weeklong track outs, cooking lessons, spa days, UNO games, Dr. Who marathons, Farkle competitions, splashing in the swimming pool, and trips to the park, memories blur into one enduring whole of family, of love of and for grandchildren. Yes, the twins really are ten now and the girls are teenagers. The cardinals and sparrows rush for seeds to feed this years babies. Spring is always rushing to fruition.

So today, after the latest confirmation of time passing, I am blessed to splash among those memories. I see  life unfold in the rolling of a baby girl who preferred that to crawling, in the steps of toddlers,  the pumping of a grandson’s legs running in soccer or softball. I am caught up in recollections of swirling and twirling by a miniature ballerina and the spins and jumps of a figure skater.

Spring begins in my garden and in the springtime lives of our grandchildren. I look around and realize:  life starts from the roots. New incarnations of hibiscus and hydrangeas, peonies and iris, Solomon Seal and forget-me-not, stronger each year as the roots go deeper and the plants spread, the blooms budding on old growth. Resurrection will come…must come. Life will be renewed in endless cycles of growth and birth, life and seeming death, grandparents, parents and grandchildren.

Spring is found in small resurrections.