Spring

     Spring sleeps beneath a barren land for half the year and slowly grows inebriated from memories of previous Springs, hopes of a new one, soaked in from the sweat of so many feet. Mother nature's tongue, lapping up all the detritus of life plodding forward. Spring learns from osmosis. Officially beginning when the whole day begs to be soaked up outside and sundresses summon the blinking off of winter. Winking lingers. When everyone's finger is on the pulse of warmth and Earth-life waking up again, Spring becomes a consciousness. But then I see everything as a consciousness. All process is a demonstration of efficiency and energy continuing to be, becoming matter, becoming energy, destruction yielding creation, and sustenance not being an event but a glimpse. Mathematical consciousness self-assigns as the epic flow transcends something so perennial as human life. In other words, I declare the process of continuation to be consciousness because it'll outlast anyone on any planet who feels like arguing. I don't even see self-preservation or survival instinct in process. Just a gentle yielding, like waves to the shore. Both give and take some, but it continues because everything does. Spring is the reminder that things continue, the glimpse.