I always forget what this feels like, this spring fever, this new light.
There is a rising in me. My hands and my lips become hungry buds and I want to rouse them in some dark place and press them against whatever's warm and giving. I feel it, that sap pulse, an awakening of green somewhere hidden and parched. It is like nothing else.
Everything around me is remembering how to be itself again. The bleeding heart in my garden has pushed up red fingers that collect the dew. The rose bushes, clematis, honeysuckle, have begun to pin ruffled rosettes to their chests that announce their names. There is an imperceptible narrowing of the gaps between the trees as their branches bare tiny new fists. I cannot help but reach out to touch it all, the fleshy whirl of future tulip, allium, a fingertip placed gently to every sign of low, green regrowth. "I remember you," I say, smiling at everything in affirmation.
Every year, I think my world dead and grow giddy at its renewal. I glide, punch-drunk, on the first bright days, face to the sky, and feel like I could stretch into it until I scatter. All around, things are finding their place, their wings, their voice. There are daisies in the verge again - daisies. Giant queen bumblebees split the air like juggernauts; starlings call their swannee whistle greetings, like cheerful bombs dropping, and the trill of the smaller birds, sparrow and finch and tit, dunnock and wren, overlap until every last second is full to overflowing.
I want to eat it whole. I want to swallow the lot and let it continue inside of me: a fat green goddess. All winter is forgiven in a heartbeat.
A robin lands a foot from my left ear. I stop dead, eyes closed, and for half a perfect minute there is nothing but his song, his hope, his ferocity, and once again, another year older, I cannot for the life of me comprehend how it is possible for a world to feel this alive.