The rain is relentless, pouring out of drains, matting my hair, shrouding the day in a grey chill. Every morning I can hear the gentle tap on the windows and I am a little disappointed, checking the calendar to see when April begins and hoping it will bring the sunshine I crave.
It is wet, and the cold that comes with it gets into my bones. I am still walking everywhere, damp whenever I return home, a little sorry that I have yet to replace the umbrella that turns inside out at the mildest gust of wind. After I shed the layers, my skin is flushed and liquid, as though I too am a plant preparing to flower.
Outside, the raindrops land like kisses on the magnolia. It is pink now, urgent and opening. Every day, the flowers are bigger and brighter, the tree standing taller and prouder. Blossom emerges from the tiny spindly trees out on the avenue, cautious white buds that will erupt in a moment, carpeting the concrete with life.
Daffodil trumpets are in full flow, oranges and yellows that sound like an alarm: it is spring!, rejoice!. Crocuses have pushed their way out of the ground, rapaciously seeking fresh air. They are lurid purple and pristine white, cream and lemon dusted with wet soil. Soon the flowers will give way to green abundance and hot days, but I am not ready yet.
In the rain, the flowers grow. The sight of them expands my lungs, pours oxygen into my soul and colour into my life. Against the grey sky, pink and orange and yellow and green emerge, tentative then poised, higher and higher until the sun bursts forth and they are bathed in sparkling light.
It is raining. But it is the spring.
