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It’s the promise of things yet to be in the midst of grey barrenness. Hints of glory rest nearly hidden in the moldering dead leaves—Dutchman’s breeches or spring beauties pushing their tender shoots and blossoms past the remnants of last autumn’s deadfall. 

It’s the tease of summer that a seventy-degree day in March taunts just before an April snow shower reminds you that it is a constant battle of air masses fighting for dominance.

  
It’s the blackness of bark after a cold spring rain against the painful blue sky that reminds you that yellow-green leaves and pollen pave the way for deep summertime shade. 

Spring is at once the promise of something brighter just around the corner and the daily reminder that nothing good comes easily. There will be freezing mornings. There will be violent storms. There will be relentless rain. There also will be the most brilliant of blooms, the fresh scent of damp earth and intoxicating flowers, and the most vivid green grass you will see for another year. 

Spring is the present that promises the future

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