The swollen buds of the plum tree begin to split revealing their silky white interiors. Whistling wings pass over in the night. The ponds at the crossroads fill and chime with the chorus of frogs. The ephemeral spice of daphne, the thick cinnamon of burgeoning alder and cottonwood perfume the mist. The anticipation of warmth is a craving.
In dreams, cupboards are emptied and swept, space is made for the coming harvest. Violets and pine visit to share their magic. Children dance in the garden as it begins to bloom in the edges between old homes and new ones.
It is the time of emergence. Hesitation, wordlessness, and heavy obscuration of creativity lift. Inspiration rushes through like the gathering of the rain. All that has been incubating through the winter begins to reveal its form. Let it take shape, sketch out ideas, write down words that come to you. It is imperative not to ignore any intuition. The universe is singing to you from the still bare branches of the maples, from the heavy sky, from the rivulets seeking their original source. Listen.