Spring, from Walden

The flowers entrance me. Their delicate, beguiling petals, laced together as if by magic. They do not meet at the top, nor in the middle, but are joined at the very bottom tip, liable to fall away at the slightest touch or pull. Graceful, yet so weak. The stems, however, are entirely different. So small, so innocuous, yet so startlingly strong. Each fiber working to hold the elegant petals up, to support the beautiful topper. Swaying in the breeze, yet never toppling down. Supplying warmth, nourishment, and constant growth. The stem will continue to provide throughout various small visitors, until the final visitor comes with clippers to shear the earthen beauty. Each year, flowers continue to bloom. From a dull brown patch of dirt rises a miracle, forcing its way to sunlight and life. Through frost and hard times, the bulb stays underground. Fair-weather fan? Quite certainly. Once the difficulties pass, however, comes the rebirth. The growth begins, an eternal metaphor. We grow, as our gardens, stretching for the warmth and yearning for the beauty. We reach skyward, our only goal eternity. Sometimes, like our roses, tulips, and daisies, we must break through dirt. We must push our way through rocks and soil, through trouble and insecurity. There are those who refuse to break free, and those who simply cannot. These will never bloom. Their beauty will remain forever hidden; their value, buried in the soil. However, for those who succeed, the journey is but commencing, the limits not yet tested. Skyward, always reaching skyward. Flourishing, from small pebble-like seed to vibrant, radiant bloom. The variety of the flowers also entices me; lilies, azaleas, chrysanthemums. Poppies, lavender, orchids, and violets. Forget-me-nots and baby's breath. Each with its own beauty and charm, each with slightly different lifestyles, yet all experiencing the same journey, upward and on.

Birds, although fear-invoking, are breathtaking. Flight, one of the inabilities of man, is recognized. Envy, avarice. We want to fly, too. To soar above the earth, viewing our homely situations and mediocre lives from such great heights. The freedom, the exhilaration, of feeling the wind from all directions. No roads, no paths to follow; simply open air, space to roam and explore. So small, so exquisite, are the birds. Their beady, watchful eyes, and their sharp and formidable beaks. Their soft, magnificent feathers, ruffling in the breeze or fluttering with the strokes of their wings. I admire birds, as well as fear them. They have something that I do not, something that I never will, but that I long for and dream of frequently.