The Burst of Spring

I live in a region of Canada with a semi-continental climate. This means we have a warm, humid summer and a very cold winter. By cold, I really mean severe. The type of cold that freezes any moisture from my breath so that ice forms on my beard and icicles grow off my eyelashes. Despite this, winter can be beautiful, even magical when it chooses to be. When the sky is bright, the snow reflecting the low-hung light, icicles dripping onto sheets of translucent ice, it feels like a movie that I get to play in. Winter is however, not my favourite season. Winter can be astoundingly mean and shows very little mercy to creatures who have not prepared for her wrath.

My favourite seasons are the in-betweens - spring and fall. Spring is especially enthralling. It is a hopeful season, full of life and promise. In particular, the smell of forest floors, newly thawed, still wet, promising life returning in all its forms. There is a green that astounds me every spring.

The burst of light green from new buds of the native Canadian birch tree, commonly called Paper Birch, makes me smile broadly every spring. This beautiful, slender tree also goes by the name of Canoe Birch, White Birch, Silver Birch and Spoolwood. The official botanical name is Betula Papyrifera.

It seems to happen overnight. Driving on Highway 416 between Prescott and Ottawa in early spring is dreary. The sky is grey. The forests seem dull except for the evergreens that poke their branches between their brown and grey deciduous cousins. The snow is still stubborn in the shade under their branches, threatening to call more snow from the skies to prolong what has already been a long winter. Then it happens. The papery bark of the birch seems to shine and bright shades of light green appear on their branches.

This burst of green seems to float just above the branches, appearing as some magical fairy aura about to make a spell. Magic then does happen.

Suddenly, within days, birds appear in flocks of hopeful lovers seeking to nest for the season. Squirrels and chipmunks argue with each other, their chittering rivaling the floor of the New York Stock Exchange in the ferocity of who owns which pile of seeds or nuts. Young deer poke their heads out from the tangles of brambles and vines, hesitant to venture too far from their mothers, but venture they do.

This is the story of spring. The burst of green in all the shades. The burst of young life emerging into their wanderings. The burst of love seekers wanting to find their mate for the season and maybe for life.

While I am not young, firmly in the fall of my life and seeing my winter on the horizon, I feel reborn every spring. In this rebirth, I feel the need to create life, if not biologically, at least in verse. Writing these poems is my version of that bird singing his song, or the deer seeking a pasture to roam and graze, or the hyperactive squirrel seeking new locations for his franchises of seedbanks.

Life is a continual cycle of birth and rebirth. I feel like I have lived many lives. This life is exceptionally sweet. There is love in my life. While I am no longer as strong as my younger version, I feel that I have earned more wisdom and certainly have learned the power of humour (especially in consideration of self). Thank you for joining me on this journey.

I hope you enjoy.

All my best,

Peter