The Eastern Shore is not known for cherry trees or Pablo Neruda, but with his line, “I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees,” watching, smelling, being outside in spring on the Shore, I think he was describing here as well. Blossoming, coming to life, opening into the fullness of what we can become.
Spring belongs to those who go out into it, who look for it.
Spring belongs to those who go on sea glass and treasure hunts on beaches at sunset.
Spring belongs to those who are mulching gardens and planting flowers.
Spring belongs to those who are paddleboarding in cold water, before it is sensible to be on the water.
When we were younger, spring belonged to the kid who got the nerve up to be the first to jump off the ferry dock on a warm day in April and re-open the river for the season.
Spring belongs to kids and coaches playing lacrosse and baseball on newly cut ball fields until the sun goes down.
Spring belongs to those who wake up camping on cool mornings.
Spring belongs to Jack Kerouac when he writes:
On soft Spring nights I’ll stand in the yard under
the stars
Something good will come out of all things yet
And it will be golden and eternal just like that
There’s no need to stay another word.
Spring belongs to those who walk outside on a clear, starry night in short sleeves and look up and wonder.
Spring belongs to William Wordsworth and his walks through the Lake District.
Spring belongs to those who plan epic trips for April birthdays.
Spring belongs to dogs running into rivers.
Spring belongs to those who look forward; those who get out and breathe in. Spring belongs to those who show up.
