My younger cousin put it best, I think.

"Spring is my favorite season, because it has a little bit of everything!"

Rain, sun, clouds.

Cold, cool, warm.

Melting snow.

Yellow daffodils.

Baby birds.

Rainbows.

The thick, rich smell of wet earth.

The sharp, clean smell of grass.

Drizzle.

The sun on your face.

It's a season of change.

Of transition.

Of contrast.

Of new beginnings.

And I'm doing everything I can to make the most of it.

Do you see how the world is beginning to bud?

Sparkling white dust starts to melt away from the snow

Water begins to creep away from it's capture

Flowing freely

Warm rain falls from the fluffy pink-colored clouds that float about in the light blue sky

Leaves from the trees begin to bud

Flowers and bugs arise from the soil

Butterflies emerge from their chrysalis

Ants drag food to their hills

Baby birds learn how to fly

Gardens become flourished once again

Their gardeners tending to the roots and crops

Farmers plant fresh seeds

Bees dance around in their hives to communicate with each other

Collecting pollen from newly risen flowers

People trim bushes and mow the lawn, beginning spring cleaning

Frogs start to unthaw from the winter

Tadpoles swimming in the water of the pond

Maple is harvested, placed in jugs, and served to many

Sometimes they're eaten along with ice-cream

The northern lights put on a show at night for those who admire its beauty

Several animals go from light toned to dark toned for the upcoming seasons

Everything in spring is beautiful

No matter where you are

Where you live

Or where you've come from

There's always a brighter light at the end of the everlasting fall of the white dust

And at times, more than others

You'll wonder how much

This season really means to us

And as the snow melts away

We too can be like water

Flowing freely

After the capture

The world is starting to bud

there weren’t enough chairs in the growing room, 

open as always to the prophets

& the wind. and so as people poured and poured

like wine into the makeshift aisles, fitting into the spaces

between thin tables & the wall, a prayer shawl &

the silver staircase rail, we went on a bench hunt

through the deserted building, thirty-ish people

in their nice seder clothes laughing, walking through the carpeted halls,

surprising each other around corners & through doors

we thought were locked but actually there were chairs in there,

black folding ones with tables too & we looked

at one another & shrugged & carried them

under our arms back up the two floors like children

holding hands as the waves 

subdued themselves in great foaming walls

as the people did when we made it back, 

pressing themselves together 

so we could pass. and as we set one by one the chairs down

almost reverently, pushing them into alignment

while the sun went down over our raised shoulders,

i thought only of there, and now, and the clear sweet 

value of doikayt, hereness — we bloom where we’re planted,

we plant seeds & chairs where we land, we nourish

our land and our hearts and our tables,

smoothing the cloths gently before sitting down.