Saturday, March 14, 2015
They always come, my Daddy said, the spring rains always come.
Some years, they come in roaring storms; the rain falling too fast for the cold ground to absorb. They come with hot lightning and thunder that makes our houses tremble.
Some years, they come gentle, sweetly watering the pregnant ground waiting to birth a new season, a new spring.
We've had rain about every day this week, and the water is standing; the saturated ground can't hold anymore. Everywhere, trees are budding, fat, just about ready to explode into bloom. The rain has washed off winter's dirty gray, allowing some green to peep through.
The spring rains always come, my Daddy said. Winter-weary people rejoice.