Springs are not always the same. In some years, April bursts upon Virginia hills in one prodigious leap - and all the stage is filled at once, whole choruses of tulips, arabesques of forsythia, cadenzas of flowering plum. The trees grow leaves overnight.
In other years, spring tiptoes in. It pauses, overcome by shyness, like my grandchild at the door, peeping in, ducking out of sight, giggling in the hallway. "I know you're out there," I cry. "Come in!" And April slips into our arms.
The dogwood bud, pale green, is inlaid with russet markings. Within the perfect cup a score of clustered seeds are nestled. One examines the bud in awe: Where were those seeds a month ago? The apples display their milliner's scraps of ivory silk, rose-tinged. All the sleeping things wake up - primrose, baby iris, blue phlox. The earth warms - you can smell it, feel it, crumble April in your hands.
Look to the rue anemone, if you will, or the pea patch, or to the stubborn weed that thrusts its shoulders through a city street. This is how it was, is now, and ever shall be, the world without end. In the serene certainty of spring recurring, who can fear the distant fall?
春不喜爱千篇一律。有时，春像个淘气的孩子，一个箭步就跃上了家门前的小山丘，它隆重的到来，非要给人一个惊喜；有时候，春又像个情窦初开的少女，羞涩腼腆，藏着、躲着，欲前又止，让人猜不透心思。
草绿花香，鸟语蛙鸣。春天回来了！这篇洋溢着融融春意的小散文献给大地，献给你！