I heard the weather before I saw it. The wind blasted against my windowpane, causing it to shake and shudder. The thing about living on the fourth floor of a building, though, is that weather look worse than it actually is. When I stepped outside in my blue dress, headed for church, I was pleasantly surprised. The wind was strong, but not overpowering. A slight drizzle fell, forming small puddles on the path.
I could smell Spring coming. And I thought of this poem by Sara Teasdale.
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,
Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.