Love Is In The Air

It’s Spring, when love springs-get it?-eternal. And because it’s Spring, I am in love. That strange ethereal love that entrances me each year and leaves me helpless and devoted. To say that some may believe a woman lies at the heart of this…

But no. I’m talking about my yard. The great outdoors, where I go to get some sunshine and socially distance at the same time. That siren, whose call I cannot run from or cease into silent contemplation, for I am forever smitten.

And it’s in the Spring, when she is most beautiful and beguiling that I cannot say a cross word or harbor an ill feeling, for that beauty so eclipses the dry sense of intellect with the scent and texture of renewal and promise, that I’m as spellbound as any man can be.

I’m not so foolish to believe the favor is returned, that her love matches mine, for as Springs rolls into Summer and then Fall, she will disappoint me, ridicule me, laugh at my sorrows, and scoff when I curse her famous disregard for all that I have done for her. I am merely one of many. And if, by chance, she is left to run wild, her beauty will not desert her. She will not care.

Some are not taken by her. They may marvel at her beauty; they may not. They will not grovel at the sight of weeds or coarse grasses. They will not spend any extra time admiring her fair works, the soft pedals, the verdant fields, the sway of new leaves in a Spring breeze. To them it’s another day, warmer perhaps, but in no way different from any other.

I will confess that earlier in the year, how many months ago I do not know, I lost my temper. Having spent the better part of an afternoon prepping the yard for the coming Spring, a vile wind undid all my hard work, throwing branches, needles, cones of every variety, and I saw her laughing at me, and I… I did curse her and did shout “I am done with this! I will do no more!”

But…

It did not last.

It’s been said that when it comes to love, men are either bastards or fools, and in this instance I will not deny where I fall. Still, there are only so many Springs we’re given to celebrate and enjoy, for unlike Spring, we are not renewed each year, and even a fool must temper his expectations going forth.

So, I do not begrudge her occasional callousness or lack of consideration. I know in the great scheme of things I am not needed, that it is the other way round. And I try to be humble enough to know my place and limitations, because I am always rewarded as Spring swings by to dazzle me with her charms however temporary or illusory.

I’m a sucker for that kind of dame.

©2020 David William Pearce

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