I am spring, life’s token of hopes fulfilled, the season of births and beginnings, come to sing to you of eternal renewal.

I rise from the darkness, from winter’s barren sleep, to color your world with comfort and joy, and to tell you that life has no conclusion, but spirals on forever.

I bring you this flow of kaleidoscopic beauty as a hint of the wonder of it all, of the endlessly dancing miracles that will bless all your days.

Be at peace, dear children.  You are forever in the arms of love.

May woke from her night’s rest feeling playful.  She wanted to create something special today, something, oh, colorful, and bold, and, well, exotic somehow.

Surveying the edge of the woods, she found a spot that she thought would be perfect for what  she had in mind.  The greenery there was quite lovely, but it could use a little pop of color.

She whisked out her bright palette; the pastels were for another day.  She wanted intensity and zing.

The she leafed through her dream book, pondering the possibilities.  She needed something large and grand.  Something lemon?  Or oriel orange?  No.  They weren’t it.   She had a taste for something specific.  She would know it when she saw it.  It had to harmonize with the dark bluish greens of the pines, and yet stand out from them.

She turned the pages faster and faster, passionate in her search.  And just as she was nearing her book’s final pages, she saw it and erupted in a laugh.  “That’s it!  A splendid fuchsia rhododendron!” she sang.

The color was perfect, and she loved the way its name rolled over her tongue.  “Fyoo shia roh doh den dron” she chanted, in her deepest voice as if casting some magical spell.   “Fyoo shia roh doh den dron.”

Then she stood and pointed her graceful green finger to exactly the spot that she had chosen and commanded, “Be!”   And a magnificent rhododendron burst full grown before her eyes, singing its joyous song.

May was surveying the slope that led to the woods when her eyes fell on a grassy patch where no flowers bloomed.   “I need a little something to put there,” she mused to herself, “ to set off that deep shady green.”

“What could I use?” she said, gently rummaging through her bag.

All the flowers that were waiting already had their missions.  Should she reassign some or move some around on the schedule?
She decided to sleep on it.  And as she drifted off, she sent a wish for guidance up to the heart of the Great Yes.

The next morning, after she had finished decorating the world with fresh dew, she returned to the grassy slope.  And there, to her surprise, she found a wonderful sprinkling of bright, sweet flowers, perfectly placed and exactly what the spot needed.

“Stars for my Lady,” the Great Yes laughed, seeing her delight.

“Oh! Thank You! Thank You!” she sang, and she danced off into the day, her heart full of gratitude and happiness.

Here in the early evening, with the light just beginning to slide into its fading, golden hues, the day cools and the earth begins to raise its evensong.

The long branches of the spruce wave over the young ferns.  The buttercups dance at its feet.  And the birds start the chorus that will sing through the branches until the light is gone.

May’s emerald palette glows in the light, the hues intensifying now that the bright glare of the day has passed.  The shadows gently deepen.

In the breeze, maple seeds twirl to the ground and white seeds of dandelions fill the air like snowflakes.

These colors, these sweet singing songs, are the blessing of the day.  “Be at peace,” they say, “All is well, and you are loved.”

When it is still enough, you can hear the trees breathing.  It’s a subtle sound, this exchange of one molecular stream for another, this taking in and giving out.  And yet the power of it astounds.

Don’t let their seeming immobility deceive you; these are not inert pieces of matter.  They are vibrantly alive, electric, aware.  They communicate with each other.  They read the moods of the lake and the air.

They know, when you look at them, whether you are truly seeing.   When you touch them, they sense your thoughts and send messages to your soul.

Today it is still enough to hear them breathing, and oh, how beautiful is the subtle sound!

The color fairies had painted all the day’s flowers.  Oh, May had a few more up her sleeve for tomorrow.  She opened new ones every day.  But for today, their work was done.

“Look at all this wonderful red I have left,” the crimson fairy said. “I was so in love with it when I mixed it in the morning that I got carried away.”

She asked the other fairies what they thought she could do with it.  “Ask around,” they said.  “See who wants it.”

So the crimson fairy darted through the park.  “Red for you!  Red for you!” she sang; “Who wants red?”

Suddenly she heard a Japanese maple call out, “Me!  Me!  I want red!”

Maples, as you probably know, are crazy for the color.   But most consider it an autumn hue.  So the fairy was tickled that this one wanted her cheerful paint.

She worked quickly, embellishing every leaf.  Even the seed pods got their share of the hue.

“How beautiful you look against the sky!” she told the little tree as it danced with delight, showing off its fresh color.

“I love it!” the tree said.  “Thank you, from the bottom of my roots!”

And the tree and the fairy shared a dance and their laughter filled the air.

Their song is beyond hearing.   It rises from their roots and swells within tight buds.  For weeks, its electric pink vibrations build their perfect harmonies, rising to the stimulating sun, smoothing in the rain, taking in the cosmic wisps of starlight.

They attune themselves to their setting, to the songs of the ferns and pines, to the melodies of the swallows and doves and larks.  They breathe in the fragrance of the forest and it, too, melds into their song.

At last, May comes, floating softly on the edges of an apricot dawn.  She bathes them in glistening dew and, just as the sun clears the horizon, she sweeps her green arms heavenward in the long-awaited command.

And they open, and their transcendent music bursts into the air and blazes its electric pink into the souls of all who chance to see them.

Her busiest days were behind her.  Everything had gone according to design.  May found a spot on the grassy riverbank and unfurled her braided hair, letting it play in the sunlight and breeze.

She had spent her exuberance, and looking back on all she had accomplished since her arrival, she laughed.  What a whirlwind it had been!  All those wonderful flowers and leaves to unfurl, all those births!

She let the sunlight massage her shoulders and the cool waters bathe her feet.  And her mind reviewed the list of tasks still before her.  Mostly now, it was the steady unfolding of what she had begun.  She would nurture and coax and calm things, easing them down to a sure, even pace, moving them into their summer mode.

She loved these soft weeks with their clear, warm days.  She loved watching all her children grow into the fullness of their forms.  Her eyes caressed the scene before her, and she swept her arm in an arc of love from horizon to horizon.  “Become, dear children,” she softly crooned.  “Become.”

It wasn’t just this small patch of flowers that you see here.  They blanketed the whole acre, singing their purple and gold in the morning’s sunshine.

I’ve driven past this field for twenty springs, and never have they been there before today.

My heart nearly burst with delight as they flamed into my eyes and I caught my breath in wonder.

This is a spontaneous eruption of joy, this wondrous song in the grass, this miracle.

I pinched myself to make sure that it was real, and it was still there, singing its hymn of happiness, for no reason at all.

Now that all the flowers were blossoming, May was free to spend her time with the forest.   To her, this was heaven, for emerald was her signature hue and in the forest, she could use it as liberally as she wanted.

She loved every shade of green, the pale tint with a hint of gray, the lemony limes, the sea greens with their whispers of blue, the jades, the clear green of the grasses, the deep piney hues.  Each sang to her with its own tone, and together they made a symphony of serenity and calm.

She loved the lushness of the color, and the way it spoke of flourishing and abundance and growth.  She covered every vine with it, every leaf and stem and tendril.

And when she was finished, she stepped back to take in the view, and she saw in her work the reflection of her own heart and gave thanks.