Springs are not always the same. In some years, April bursts upon Virginia hills in one prodigious leap – and all the stage is filled at once, whole choruses of tulips, arabesques of forsythia, cadenzas of flowering plum. The trees grow leaves overnight.

    In other years, spring tiptoes in. It pauses, overcome by shyness, like my grandchild at the door, peeping in, ducking out of sight, giggling in the hallway. "I know you're out there," I cry. "Come in!" And April slips into our arms.

    The dogwood bud, pale green, is inlaid with russet markings. Within the perfect cup a score of clustered seeds are nestled. One examines the bud in awe: Where were those seeds a month ago? The apples display their milliner's scraps of ivory silk, rose-tinged. All the sleeping things wake up – primrose, baby iris, blue phlox. The earth warms – you can smell it, feel it, crumble April in your hands.

    Look to the rue anemone, if you will, or the pea patch, or to the stubborn weed that thrusts its shoulders through a city street. This is how it was, is now, and ever shall be, the world without end. In the serene certainty of spring recurring, who can fear the distant fall?

    春不總是千篇一律的。有時(shí)候，四月一個(gè)健步就躍上了弗吉尼亞的小山丘。頓時(shí)，整個(gè)舞臺(tái)活躍起來：郁金香們引吭高歌，連翹花翩翩起舞，梅花表演起了獨(dú)奏。樹木也在一夜之間披上了新綠。

    有時(shí)候，春又悄然來臨。它欲前又止，羞澀靦腆，就像我的小孫女，倚在門口，偷偷往里瞅，又一下子跑開了，不見蹤影，從門廳傳出她咯咯的笑聲。我喊一聲：“我知道你在那兒，進(jìn)來吧！”于是四月便倏地一下飛進(jìn)我們懷中。

    山茱蓃的花骨朵兒嫩綠嫩綠的，鑲著赤褐色的花邊。在那漂亮的花萼里，竟穩(wěn)穩(wěn)地簇?fù)碇�十幾顆小種子。我們不禁要驚羨地問一句：一個(gè)月前這些種子還在哪兒呢？蘋果樹則像賣帽人，向人們展示他帽子上那一片片微帶點(diǎn)玫瑰紅地乳白色絲緞。所有熟睡的都醒了——櫻草花、小蝴蝶花、藍(lán)夾竹桃。大地也暖和起來了——你可以聞到四月的氣息，感覺到它那股馨香，把它捧在手中賞玩。

    去看看白頭翁花，如果你愿意，再去看看豌豆畦，或是那倔強(qiáng)地手臂伸過城市街道的野花。它們從前是這樣，現(xiàn)在是這樣，將來還會(huì)是這樣，這是個(gè)永不停息的世界。當(dāng)我們發(fā)現(xiàn)，春已切切實(shí)實(shí)地回來了，在恬靜之中，誰還會(huì)害怕遙遠(yuǎn)的秋天呢？