the middle of spring means everything is brown.
The mud that churns and splashes under tires on the dirt roads.
The bark of the newly-budding trees,
Wet with the rain of promised flowers to come.
The grass that remains pale and scratchy,
Newly free of its heavy winter coating.
A walk in the woods brings new life
To this time so devoid of color.
Though, it does not come in the form of visible hues.
It comes from the chirps and songs of birds,
Who have returned and brought with them such pleasant noise,
Breaking the silence of the winter months,
As barren as the cold landscape itself.
It comes from the sticky sweet sap
Oozing from the maple trees,
Collected in metal buckets,
To later coat your tongue and breakfast,
Thick and rich like honey.
It comes from the smell,
That is so strongly the smell of spring,
It’s difficult to articulate,
But emotes the new life emerging before your eyes.
It makes you appreciate the brown even more,
Because it’s evolved to be a promise,
Of the flowers' painted faces,
Soon to bloom and greet the sun.
The lush green grass,
Rolling over the hills and fields,
Like a soft, new carpet.
You’re now content to wait for the visible color,
Already feeling it swirling in the air,
Through the trees, around you.
In the form of a pleasant breeze,
Lifting the hairs on the back of your neck.