From Winter to Spring
- Creative Writing to Inspire -

Dulcet notes of rebel-robins lit up the warming day. All winter long its little song had been so very rare. Yet upon the morn of a sun bright and warm, its chorus of one it gave to the air with the gusto of a dawn rooster. Feathers fluffed, spry eyes a-glittering, its red chest puffed with the joy of such melodic yelling. All around it, flora and fauna, none were in doubt - the little bird commanded the winter to go, to take its snow, and let the spring wander in with her flowers.

September 2026

 

A feathered light that defied the dim, that defied the cold, that contained the whisper of a heated spark, ignited that day in mid-March. As a delinquent anti-ghost it roamed to happily haunt the frosty loam and send white whisps of vapor skyward. As cloud tendrils they grew from the ground, as if they painted pathways for the sleepy daffodils below. All around the woodland and glade stirred, the silent announcement loudly heard. Spring had glanced its way that day and was advancing steadily.

September 2026

 

The march wind had lost its bite, no longer did it flash icy fangs. Birdsong had regained a bounce. The trees waved budding twig-wands as smug magicians about to flourish new foliage from nowhere. From a cold nothingness the breeze had gained a sweeter scent. Though the sky remained grey the day felt lighter, the earth more dreamy and time ceased to drag yet bubbled as a spring brook. God's calendar had turned its seasonal page.

September 2026

 

Cold drizzle clung, a heavy mist that pooled in that low-land depression, a chill-drowning of the tender buds. Lambs shivered. Ducklings hid. Winter’s freezing fog persisted as embodiment of callous gossip, the sort that limps from envy’s lips. Yet that spring, that jaundiced sallow spring, persisted as a champion, pushing, determined. In time the icy air did warm and fog bowed to ambient clarity.

September 19, 2025.

 

Water of ice-memory hugged pebbles sharp and smooth, distinguishing neither nor and promptly hither-thither spun as a concussed ballerina troupe. Spring Sun shivered in Old Man winter’s gasp-gust, his final farewell ice-lashing. Trees in resurgent gaiety grew greenest buds, arboreal limbs a-waving, a-dancing, playing unseen viola strings. Flowers lit fuses to silken fireworks, awaiting their silent booms, anticipating eyes applause. Air was aromatic laughter. Light was the warmest jollity. Soothing rain came as countless comforting hands, countless companions to the scene. All of this sat in Leah’s heart as a soulful memory, returning as a once lost lamb.

September 1, 2025.

 

Rain slew in drumming waves, relentless, cold, thick. Though devoid of Winter’s sting, the rain that spring was only handsome in its unabashed misery. The sun skulked behind Cloud’s tumult, the hazy havoc of the skies, snubbing newborn lambs and calves who promptly theron shivered, shook and died. And, of the flowers that rose as the very flags of optimism, ne’er a one escaped the drubbing; all were beaten into the dirt, ne’er a one survived.

May 2, 2025.

​

​