I’m not sure how to say what I want to say. Only that spring is at last returning, but don’t look up to find it. It’s not in the sky, or even the trees.
Green always begins in the ground. Beside the mud puddles, pushing up under the beer cans the fishermen toss aside, creeping steadily through the rot of last fall’s leftovers.
Spring doesn’t arrive as some lofty ideal, descending in glory from the heavens.
It’s a slow but steady thaw. It endures the tramp of muddy boots. This green simply perseveres, through frosts and false starts and one more day of mittens.
No, green begins in lowly places.
I just want you to know, that if your world hasn’t burst into technicolour bloom yet, it’s ok. It’s ok if your leaves are still hiding, tight in their buds. It’s ok if the only spring you see is down in the ditch.
It’s coming. Do not despise a humble beginning. Green always begins in the ground.