How to determine whether Spring is here?

Spring is in the visuals, the change in the air, dimensions of afternoon warmth, and lingering light. 

 

Spring is ripening with each moment.

Color deepens.  Wow-factor soars.   

We often talk of happy-places.

How about our wow-factors.  

 

Spring is one glorious upheaval.

A beautiful transformation.  

Yellow

Petals & stripes.  I find this an intimate novel happened upon.  Lovely.  Perhaps, the lesson if there be one:  trust in the unexpected especially as Spring is closer than it was yesterday. Seriously, did you think I wouldn't mention that I'm smitten by the red center?  

Winter negotiates with Spring

and in good time, purple wildflowers appear.  Won't be long; the wheel is turning.  Each morning, a petite turning.

Spring feels spiky

and at the same time circular with a wheel of purple and yellow/green at the center. The above, a descendant of Ceanothus -- that lovely wild lilac -- which my eyes & nose compete with bees.  Spring is nothing short of an elixir.  

In love of Spring’s take

 On the minimal before the onslaught of the lush. 

Spring is finally here

 we wait for rain.  What are you waiting for?  And why?

Spring is

a jumble of the unexpected -- welcomed.  Much like a meal of leftovers nourishes eyes & body.

 

Night welcomes Spring

 

Fringe

Some words are perfectly "sounded." Fringe is an example as is "vibrates." Speaking of vibrates, that's what Spring does. Spring, too, being a wondrously sounded word. "Breakfast," also. Meanwhile, back to fringe. My eyes' memory takes in the Chinese fringe flowers I saw on my walk yesterday and my feet vibrate joyously. No pen/paper necessary.

Never forget

Spring has a green eye can see through the thickest bark whose branches are nest & web. When was the first time you seriously noticed Spring or trees with their kingdoms of stories?

Name that tune

A jazz piece for sure and with lyrics about rain and night and something/someone gone. For good. Although absence is one of the least permanent things I've encountered. Suddenly, Spring arrives with madcap abundance, filling absence beyond measure. Like a favorite dish which no longer relies on a recipe. Or all the filled notebooks waiting for an audience of one.

Spring isn't sheltering-in-place

Spring is being itself -- riotous with color, texture, shape, fragrance & attitude.  It's a good time to walk (6 feet apart), cook asparagus and other vegetal delights, and made petite poems the size of cherry blossoms.   I wonder a time when we won't immediately get the references to "sheltering-in-place" and "6 feet apart?"

Wheels or bulbs?

These wheels remind me of spoons set deeply in a drawer of many spoons, of many knives.  Like a poem which is really 5 or 7 poems when pen separates the bulbs.  Gestures really. Whether Spring comes from wheels or bulbs, may she come.

What is the pure Spring poem?

Bucolic? 27 shades of wet-green? Not necessarily. Spring is jumble. Hands-down, subterranean revolution. Eruption & feast for eye/nose. Totally, messy.


Equivalent in food? Lots of dishes/cutting surfaces. Field greens, tangy goat cheese, roasted beets, roasted almonds, cherry tomatoes, nasturtium. Fresh herbs of the snipper’s choice.


Snipping a poem comes...