Spring Has Sprung

The grass has ris

I wonder where the birdies is

The birdies, they is on the wing

But that’s absurd

I thought the wing was on the bird

It’s the time of year when everyone breathes a sigh of relief. Ahh, they say, turning faces to the sun, shaking out a blanket to picnic in the grass. Pink cherry blossoms burst from trees and green shows itself in all its shades.

But I’m still in winter mode, not ready to be so relaxed, or to get out the patio furniture – it’s old and rusty, it’s heavy.

All my artist friends are busy painting landscapes and seascapes. In anticipation I fix up my shed where a blank canvas stares from the easel so I get out a picture of the Lake District, because I’m stuck in the past unable to paint what’s in front of me.

In an effort for lightness, I bought colorful flower seeds back from the RHS Wisley Gardens in England but I can’t be bothered to dig the ground, even though the soil is soft and willing. I just let the weeds take over and tell myself I’m interested to see what wild things can grow.

Every day, as I walk to the kitchen, the seed packets stare at me from my desk.  I pick them up at least twice a day to admire the pretty shapes and colors. I ignore the white Cosmos willowy and tall, waving to me from the future. The Delphiniums shout their showy blueness and the Zinnias are downright angry at my rudeness. I don’t believe the Cornflowers will amount to much so maybe I’ll just throw them onto the bank, whereas, the pink fairy Lupins promise much more. I start to dream about garden fairies, the bees and butterflies they will attract.

Me and Paul walk through the woods with two wagging dogs, sniffing every possible scent while we are careful not to trip over exposed roots. The path weaves around the creek from the bay. Swans are finding their mates and nesting and so many of them. I counted around 50 then gave up.

Birds are singing in all their varied tongues, and Paul holds up his phone because there’s an app that tells which bird sang what. And every time, we can’t remember. I used to have perfect pitch and a musical ear, one that can retain any tune, rhythm or melody. The Carolina wren is a great imitator, the Robin prolific so, how could we? “It’s just practice,” I say to Paul as we worry about loss of hearing and worse, brain cell loss.   

The Catbirds are hopping around in the lower branches, lively and industrious, wearing their little black caps, and classy grey suits. “Catbirds are my spirit bird,” Ruth has decided so I painted a Catbird for her.

I painted a Blue Jay for Jacob, bright and bolshie but beautiful. A Blackbird for Joel, deep and dark, singing at the moon.  And a Common Starling for Sam, with subtle blue and green iridescence.  I was finding bird metaphors for each of my children’s characters.

I hear some bird calling, don’t ask me which one.  It’s persistent repetitive chirp, it’s high-pitched tweeting. OK, shut up, I’m coming. Picking up the red California Poppies - they won - I shoved them into my pocket, took up the shovel and went out to dig.