Spring comes. She drifts. We bring in early signs of her. Cuttings of jasmine. The first white hyacinth. Laying them on the kitchen table. The scent fills up the cracks in the wood left by winter, lingering long after vases and positions on windowsills have been found.
The mandarins are out. Imperials. They are dressed for the carnival. Their skins peel as easily as paper. We eat them on the lawn, catching the aroma of the pith under our fingernails.
The short days are lengthening. The lead pencil streets turn pigeon blue. We close our eyes and dream of sand and sea.
The gum trees thrust freshly manicured fingers to the sky. Grasshoppers pause, losing footing on burnished bark.
Cats sit on warm stone and stretch, languidly regarding bugs in the grass. The poets shake off their winter coats, examining the way the afternoon light has changed.
We know her. She comes every year, yet her arrival is almost a surprise. It is as if we had forgotten her brilliance. She nudges us, gentle and familiar, reminding us that the colours in her palette have only just begun to appear.
It is endless, this change. And it never stops us from wondering.