Yesterday I heard the gentle footsteps of Spring approaching. I saw her peering out through the clouds, all dressed in yellow.
I felt her in the soft rocking on the front porch while sipping white wine with an old friend, shoes fallen off.
I lay down in the grass next to the stone cross with my son’s name carved deep into marble, and even at the cemetery, Spring sings of glory on the rise.
I don’t know how she does it, but Spring can paint the whole world into sanctuary. She touches the walls built up in the winter and turns them to glass stained in color.
I saw the weather reports yesterday and knew, on that blessed first Sabbath in March, that this Monday afternoon would be cold and wet, even threatening of snow and ice. And sure enough, the umbrella is turned upside down by the front door and the school painting hurried into the house from the car is now drying on the kitchen counter, edges curling.
The footsteps I heard yesterday have u-turned. I can hardly hear them now. Doesn’t it seem like it’s always one step forward and two steps back?
But then again, yesterday I felt the shine in the cemetery, and I tasted the wine on the porch. And today I don’t believe in one step forward and two steps back.
Because I have never gotten anywhere worth being by walking a straight line.