In the midst of spring is when I find it hardest to believe spring will ever come again.  I want to shout, “Wait, wait for me!” to every rose or cream or blistering fuschia branch that whizzes by me as I sit, stationary in my car, waiting to arrive wherever.  My heart does not feel big enough to receive, never mind contain, the life radiating towards Something no more or less wonderful than its Self.  Maybe I am radiating, too, in sympathy with the coded message ciphered by the leaves and petals and twigs and stems.  “Come with us,”  they whisper.  “We are going your way.”