The months of spring are: whenever you notice. Whenever you stop bracing against the cold and feel, even for a moment, the strange and unreasonable hope rising from the dirt.
Spring is not a date. It is a threshold — a slow, patient rebellion against the stillness of winter. The first crocus pushing through frozen soil may arrive in late February, long before March has earned its name. By May, the world may already feel like summer’s preamble: heavy with pollen, long with light, restless with heat. The calendar months are just scaffolding we built around an unfolding mystery.
That is spring. Not on your calendar — in your chest.