It was a dreary day. Snow was gone, melted in air just above freezing and in mist that one could not call rain but chilled and changed in fine and saturation of the sky.
It was a strange sky in which to find joy; yet, to her, his spirit seemed.
“Why are you so happy?” she asked. “The day and world are a mess.”
He led with focus and guide of eyes to sight within the scene, to an overgrown corner of yard still covered in residue, matted browns and tans, from season of life before.
“The ground is clear of snow, and the earth is thawed. Yes, it looks a mess—but it’s only on the surface. The soil beneath is dry, and it will turn and mix well with the thin ugly of top and make a perfect seedbed.
I intend to plant our first seeds and begin our garden and spring!”
Why was he so excited? Why was it romantic—such a small and silly thing?
She didn’t know but believed it so, all the same—his hope and excitement to cultivate, grow, tend, and begin anew.
In mind, she saw the dapple-green of seedlings’ break over dark of cleared, tilled soil. She saw their slow beginning of growth then shoot when taken to root from last nurture of seed; sudden burst and spread of life.
Why was it romantic?
She didn’t know but still believed. She thought as well that all must have and possess their own inclinations and affinities to their own small and seemingly silly things that affect and enrich in experience of simple pleasures and anticipations in a hope.
She was ready for the spring. She was ready for the green—for dapple-break of seedlings over open face of earth; and for her freckled same, living mirror in the break, across her spring-woke skin.
He was ready for the same—to love the warmed and woke and dappled break of living beauty all again.