He is the first warm breeze after the winter frosts.
The first thoughts of summer and good things to come. Sometimes, he is a storm, brutal and sudden, over quickly. Torrential downpours overwhelm me, but serve only to nourish the soil where I grow
In the wake of the storm everything is fresh and clean again
He is the first blossom unfurling. He is the first of everything. He is the smell of rain and dew on grass. He is warmth shattering the gray lingering from months before.
He is a marker of change.
The first blade of grass pushing through the melting snowdrift. He is hope and the return of south-flying birds.
But he is also mud and angry skies for days.
He impedes what is meant to come when spring showers drown May flowers.. I must move ahead, and leave the spring behind.