Spring are not always the same. In some years, April bursts upon Virginia hills in one prodigious leap-- and all the stage is filled at once, whole choruses of tulips, arabesques of forsythia, cadenzas of flowering plum. The trees grow leaves overnight.
In other years, spring tiptoes in. It pauses, overcome by shyness, like my grandchild at the dooor, peeping in, ducking out of sight, giggling in the hallway. "I know you're out there, " I cry. "Come in!" And April slips into our arms.
The dogwood bud, pale green, is inlaid with russet making. Within the perfect cup a score of clustered seeds are nestled. One exammines the bud in awe: Where were those seeds a month ago? The apples display their milliner's scraps of ivory silk, rose-tinged. All the sleepiing things wake up--primrose, baby iris, blue phlox. The earth warms -- you can smeel it , feel it, crumble April in your hands.
The dark Blue Ridge Mountains in which i dwell, great-hipped, big-breasted, slumber on the western sky. And then then stretch and gradually awaken.
A warm wind, soft as a girl's hair, moves sailboat clouds in gentle skies. The rain comes -- good rain to sleep by -- and fields that were dun as oatmeal turn to pale green , the Kelly green.
Look! The rain falls, and something happens. It is the germination process. Germ of what? Grem of life, germ inexplicable , germ of wonder. The dry seed ruptures and the green leaf uncurls. Here is a message that transcends the rites of any church or creed.
This is the resurrection time. That which was dead , or so it seemed , has come to life again -- the stiff branch , supple; the brown earth , green . This is the miracle: there is no death; there is in truth eternal life.
