Spring is my favorite season of the year in central Ohio.
In winter, we curl inward, hunker down, and brace against the cold. We clad ourselves in knitted helmets and puffy armor to do battle with winter.
And then one day, finally, spring arrives. My shoulders loosen and lower. I take a nice deep breath. Nature transforms into a Seussical wonderland, trees daubed with fragrant pink fluffs and covered with lacy veils of delicate buds. The goldfinch sloughs off his drab winter disguise and pulls his bright yellow cape out of storage.
But the sign of spring that I anticipate above all others is the gentle emergence of the spring wildflowers.
They quietly poke their heads from beneath the leafmeal blanket to warm their faces in the light of the lengthening days. Without the fanfare of summer’s buds, it might be easy to overlook these humble harbingers of spring. Soft and muted, more leaf than blossom, many of them.
It is a show of modesty with the violets and anemone, nothing flashy or extravagant like some of their hot-weather brethren:
Seeing the wildflowers amidst the fallen leaves and branches, bravely facing the chill of early spring, inspires a sense of hope and admiration. For something so small and delicate, they are surprisingly hardy.
Spring is the best. It’s the light at the end of winter’s cold, dark tunnel. I know that the humidity and mosquitoes of summer will arrive all too soon, but for this window of time, all is fresh and gentle.
I feel calm and happy when I pass my wildflower friends on the trail. They offer a lesson in humility. Understated is underrated.
We exchange quiet smiles and tilt our faces back up toward the sun.
Don't Fleece the Bees 