My fingers froze above the computer keyboard trying to find a way to write about the new season without resorting to baby ducks and daffodils. All the while, these lines were running through my mind:
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!
I memorized William Allingham’s poem, The Fairies, in Mrs. Thrash’s fifth-grade class. Somehow, the memory of reciting that poem in front of my fellow fifth-graders fused with another one: bugging Mom to break or to, at least, bend her ironclad rule of no bare feet outside before Memorial Day. Suddenly, I was eleven-years-old again and it was spring. I struggled to focus on long-division problems while daydreaming about summer: endless hours of exploring the neighborhood on my bike, reading Trixie Belden mysteries, and looking over Dad’s shoulder as he mapped out our annual camping trip.
Things aren’t much different now. I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to keep my attention on a pile of receipts that need to be tamed and tabulated. When my eyes are about to go crossed from looking at the numbers, I take a break to check out the National Park Service’s website, planning a late summer trip to the Grand Canyon.
Outside, the wind blows and pollen fills the air. It’s not very warm yet, but last week on Grant Street I saw a row of daffodils, heads nodding in the breeze–a sure sign that spring is here.