Early spring always remembers me to death – I know, it’s contradictions, maybe even ridiculous. Outside my walls, tiny bird’s are singing, the sunshine seem’s to be brighter and first warmer winds banish every speck of dust from the air. Everything looks as if an ancient Greek sculptor has just stopped his work and intentionally surrounded his artwork with hard shadowlines in order to give him an ultimate finishing touch.
Is it not precisely the bursting new life, burgeoning in every little corner, that clear cold light of a early March morning, that makes the losses of winter so visible, clear and aching? Here’s no colorful foliage, no dizzling fog, no glittering snow, that would graciously cover anymore every harm to a gentle forget.
They are just there, the dead mouse on the doormat, the withered Christmas flower arrangements and the slight, barely perceptible smell of rotting grass – who, believing in scientists, causes our spring feelings. They are there, bare, absolute and alone but no one percieves them next to the miracle of a freshly blossomed daffodil.