It creeps up slowly, hauntingly, heard first as a voice just before waking. It is a kind of knowing before recognition, a sensation bubbling up from a hidden source, a trophic change following the angle of the sun. It answers the sleepy questioning of half-lidded eyes with its own arcana, an age-old charm to release Persephone from the Stygian night. Her venture to the surface brings a rising sap and swells the barren branches with new bud. The throat of every bird in the neighborhood warbles an acknowledgement of her arrival and stakes a claim on some piece of her promise. Even after all these years, I have built no immunity to her seduction and my heart trembles at her radiance. Darkness falls off me like peeling chips of paint, and my pale white arms show bare underneath. I can't help but forgive again the perfidy of a changing light, my relief and gladness too real to admit resentment, and welcome in my embrace the return of spring.
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