Today I saw spring in my granddaughter’s eyes as she carried fresh soil, white pansies and lavender alyssum to fill a flower box outside her bedroom window. She was excited and intent, but took time away from gathering gravel to climb high into the limbs of a sheltering tree. 

I felt spring in the buckets of water that fell on my head, as I walked down the steps to the garden to see how many of my State Fair Zinnias were left standing. The slugs have been busy turning the leaves from sturdy and strong to a fragile hole-ridden lace. 

I heard spring in my husband’s voice as he described his students outdoor tennis match, and his hope that the window of billowing white clouds and blue skies would hold long enough for them to finish. 

Dark blankets of rain push against Oregonians, who are already soaked to the core, then pull back for moments of sun, to tease, invite and send messages of hope for better days to come.

Spring is like a new puppy that sits in your lap, all warm and cuddly, then goes to the corner and eats your best shoes.