I Was Born In Spring

I was born in the spring of the year— a New England spring, that comes only with reluctance— a damp, gray chill that clings to its pewter skies and blustery winds, unwilling to yield its frigid grip— until the day, that day in the middle of May when I drew my first breath on this planet— a breath of gentle air, perfumed with the heady scent of lilacs, where triumphal shafts of blessed sunlight bathed a world gushing with the birth waters of a greening, bursting, exuberant earth, trumpeting her joy in a torrent of birdsong. I was born in the spring of the year— and even in the snowy silence of a New England winter, I shelter within myself the glorious fragrance of petals unfolding.