Winter's frigid gray and white

Now succumbs to Spring's delight

Yellow blossoms framed in green

Robins bound onto the scene

Sunny days and breezy nights

Cotton clouds and soft moonlight

Color seems to comfort me

Feathered friends sing poetry

Lilac scents float through the air

Fragrant hyacinths so fair

All my senses want to dance

Join the chorus and romance

Of March's painted kisses sweet

Earth's refreshment, my rich treat

I have missed winter....though I have heard no large or small ladies singing about it being over.  Either way, no one can complain about these beauties popping out everywhere.  Another favorite....the hearty daffodil/jonquil/Easter flower or whatever you want to call these smiling delights!  Welcome flowers - even if we might catch your little sunny heads above a winter snow!  

Writing is an interesting thing.  Inspiration comes in bursts...like waves.  There's a rhythm - a flow.  It isn't tangible or predictable.  It's a wind; suddenly it's there - or it's gone.  I had a month or more recently where there was swelling inside - until the cloud broke onto these pages.  And then as quickly as the rain began....it stopped.  And for days and weeks there was nothing.  Oh, occasionally, when driving or walking, a thought might begin, but generally just no pressing desire to have a blog storm.  

I suppose life is similar.  It sways - like the trees....sometimes hard enough to make the boughs crack and pop....or even break.  Sometimes it's a gentle, steady motion that even the leaves don't seem to mind.  They rock to the beat of the world around them....the forces they rise to meet each day.  They embrace and even dance with the invisible breezes that subtly manipulate them.  It's not until the harshness presses hard on them that they are even aware... and then we might hear the crackling, creaking sounds of resistance and bending.

Writing is often the complaints or groans that respond to daily winds and storms.  Or it can be a mellow sound, a playful song, a content melody.  One never quite knows when the heart will offer it's depths...and to what extent.  At any rate, these pages are an outlet, where the tides can softly roll in....or carry the ship passionately outward to sail away from the mundane.  I suppose today is a quiet, breezy float....a contemplative afternoon of watching the sea gulls soar and glide.  I'm thankful it's not a typhoon.  :)