The splendiferous glories of spring

Whan that aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of march hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendered is the flour ...

Tomorrow is the first day of spring; that is a good thing, as it has been much, much too long in coming. Spring has nothing but virtue. Despite the Chaucer at the beginning, I know it's not yet April, but it will be soon. It was opined by the Bard that April was the cruelest month, but I disagree. I know that police statistics attest to the fact there are more suicides in April than any other month, and more old people die in April than in the winter, ironically enough, but I refuse to accept bad press as it pertains to spring. The guy in the picture -- OK, me -- was standing near the pond in the Royal Roads Japanese gardens last spring, and he was blissed by it being the time of year it was. He may have been blissed by other things, too, but he isn't saying. OK, I'm not saying. But, as Philip Larkin once wrote (or should have, if he didn't): "Hooray-hooray, it's the first of May. Outdoor screwing starts today!" So, you see spring is a time of growth -- indeed, fecundity, if you are inclined that way. But, if you are merely sensual, it is still a splendid time of the year for cuddly shenanigans.

The older I get, the more I find I detest the winter. It is a time of sadness, light-deprivation and, worst of all, damp cold. It's wretched and it's dead. I know it has a role to play in the cycle of life in our northern climes, but I would rather not be part of it. It works less and less for me each year.

But, spring. Delirious spring. I have spent the weekend in the garden. I feel vitalized. The life affirming sun is shining, and I offer my welcome to tomorrow when spring truly arrives. I don't even care if it rains tomorrow. It will still be spring, and there will be hope.