Incipient spring.

The dark gloom of winter is beginning to withdraw, removing it's cold shroud from my senses. Every year it's the same, and every year spring still feels fresh and new to me. The first flower of spring, the crocus, always fills me with new hope. Hope which moments before seemed insurmountably distant, and impossible to obtain. The rich, earthy smell of sun warmed soil, the birdsong floating though the air, and the sun, warm on my face through a bitterly cold breeze, may have been present occasionally through the winter, but I never feel them as piercingly, as intensely, as in the spring.

The vernal season affects my emotions profoundly. All the seasons do, but none so forcefully as springtime. Love, particularly new love, is more poignant, almost painfully so. I must restrain my optimism, lest it become wild and unrealistic. I find myself breaking into song, inflicting my singing voice on innocent victims.

The last few years I have been unable to fully enjoy my favorite season. Too much grief, too much responsibility, I have kept myself from savoring the sensations of spring.

Perhaps this year I can let go of past pain, and revel in the sensations of the season. I apologize in advance for the aural discomfort I am likely to inflict upon my friends, as I harmonize to the mood of spring.