Sue and I had an early supper in the market this evening and walked home up Cumberland Avenue. Despite the blue sky, a cold wind crept under our jackets. Spring, it seemed, had retreated down south for a few days. But then the sidewalk took us past St. Joe's, and there, in the small strip of garden immediately below the whitewashed west wall of the church, a army of short, green shoots emerged from the damp earth. Further along, a chorus of snowdrops and crocuses stood above last year's grass. There, in the reflected sunlight from the wall, the warmth of spring had found a place to stay and hold.
We hurried on. But in other times and places, I've found a dryish place to sit and enjoy the early spring sunshine. The sheltered corner of a building. A nook at the base of a boulder. A bench beside a ski hut. Somewhere out of the wind, we lean back, with eyes closed against the long rays of the morning or evening sun. The warmth spreads in and through us, bringing a sense of supreme well-being. We glow and luxuriate, and become our own spring flowers.
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