March Magic

By Marie Masters

I am audacious. A force of nature blowing fickle winds of change, I’m a cyclone of willful, lusty breezes speckling a child’s primrose cheeks and unfurling a woman’s red scarf. Once I’ve a mind to rejuvenate the world, there’s no stopping my tirade of exterior decorating. Spinning like a dervish, my palette flings color and texture and details everywhere. Twirling. Whirling. And when it’s done, I delight in the chaos of my imperfectly perfect creation.

I am child-like. Relishing my pranks on the landscape, I run fleet along the tops of bent, brown blades of grass—a stray brittle leaf skipping as briskly as pebbles that crest the water when tossed from hands eager to make stones jump and fly. I’m mischievous, hiding my exuberance under the surface—a wiggling tap-root in search of a chance to burst onto the scenery. My spirit explodes in shades of unripe apple, fuzzy kiwi, and gooseberry lime. Then, I blush pink that’s luscious as melting strawberry ice cream drip-dripping down a grateful girl’s chin.

I am joyful. A mother bird flaps her wings to shake off any fear of me. She’s invigorated by the fruitfulness of her flight. And among broken blue eggshells, hatchlings squirm with indulgence at the sight of the sumptuous worm. The squirrels join the excitement, happily chattering to finally set Lilliputian paws on earth that springs back warm and spongy. A flash of a bushy tail signals an adventure to find new places to perch and observe chasing cats and bouncing dogs from a safe, playful distance. Another swish and it begins. Pounce… nature’s game is afoot in a newly budded maple.

I am dazzling. Don’t move, or risk losing sight of my purest snowdrop blossom—mostly hidden, unless one pays careful attention, as it quietly sneaks and creaks through the crystalline, crusty surface of icy snow. Then, step aside for the brave crocus, the tiniest soldier that ever boldly splashed hue onto petal. Popsicle purple, waxen white and gregarious gold, unable to be contained any longer, petite blooms illuminate like fireworks against an earthy drab sky. Each promises that rainbows will follow—fields of smiling daffodil heads, bouquets of floppy tulips, and clusters of honey-dipped hyacinths.

I am vibrant. There’s nothing tepid or lukewarm about me. I glow bright as the sun. I am hot and scorching… fun and laughing… fiery and life-giving. There’s no “half-baked” from my vantage. From here, there is only possibility and growth and love. Beauty emanates hotly from its eternal source and kisses the earth again. It’s a passionate kiss… one not forgotten or dismissed. It is rapturous and pure as light. Powerfully charged.

I am springtime, and I have arrived.

Marie Masters is a Southeastern Michigan-based writer, whose fiction and non-fiction is often inspired by nature, whether it’s depicted in art or found in the state’s abundant beauty. She can be contacted at mariemasters@earthlink.net.