It's Here

Spring has finally stretched its fingers enough to tickle the frozen grounds of Zelenograd. First one finger gently reaches out as warm sun rays. Soon, the blocks of ice lining the streets begin to unfold in streams of watery rivulets, pooling in the conclaves of the streets and sidewalks. But spring likes to have its fun, and like the tease it is, it goes away and allows the snow to fall once again, its virgin whiteness covering the unhidden cigarette butts and pieces of long-forgotten trash. The pools of water turn to slush and sludge. After all, Spring can't be too easy on us. But when he chooses to, Spring returns bearing fresh gifts. Maybe a small green stem here, a baby leaf there. Warm tendrils and lingering kisses on our cheeks. If ever there was a playboy, his name was Spring. When he comes, you forget to be mad at him for taking his dear, sweet time. Instead, you openly embrace him with open arms and return the trail of kisses by basking in his glory with long walks under freshly-leafed trees.

Winter, in its magnificent splendor was lovely. And we need the cover of white snow to encompass and hide our transgressions. But winter is frozen and closed, an elusive mistress that costs too much. Spring is open and welcoming. It both takes and gives. And, Spring is here.

Sincerely,
Your Russian Traveller