The call of the cardinal,

sharp red,

whose morning song fills the air.

The smell of Birth in the soil and bursts of the trees’ first buds,

Hanging like thick perfume.

The warmer-tinged breeze than that of winter;

Blowing in hope, easeful joy.

It peels back thick clouds from the sun,

Allowing the artist’s palette of sunset to return.

The setting of the Winter months.

~~~

There’s a poking of the Bear that’s happening.

A reminder to wake up, dust off,

Experience the Birth of the new beginning,

of the new season.

I know that very Bear. I know his breath on my face.

He too awakened me from my slumber—

Pulling me from my bed, naked and vulnerable,

Like Birth itself, frightening and new.

And full of potential.

Reminding me to rise up, to begin again.

In this new beginning’s light.

~~~

This Birth begins long before the naked eye can see.

Spring does not begin with the blossom.

Instead, germinating, it collects the depth of Winter Waters,

below the surface, quietly.

Resting before beginning to crack, shake, burst, and

climb to the surface of the soil.

Only then do we see the outer beauty.

After most of the hard work is done,

In the dark of the Soil.

Hard work all for the sake of Beauty itself.

~~~

We too like seeds germinate, in the Winters of our Souls.

Collecting water and nutrients,

Resting, pausing, in stillness.

And then we too are called to wake up,

To rise towards the Sun.

Even in the aches of the shift,

and the sleepiness of leaving slumber,

There’s overwhelming hopefulness.

It tiptoes in the Heart.

The sparkle of Joy, Hope, Bursting Creativity.

That is the gift of Spring in the budding blossom of the Heart;

In the fertile soil of the Soul.