The kind recluse has listened to meterologist speculations, has consulted the storm birds, and has interpreted the wavy channels summoned by giddy psychic states, and is now certain that winter is not playing possum, that spring is here at last.
Shortly, this maddened elf will lounge by the lake with one enchanted ear open to the daffodil vibration. The steep ravine walls will be traversed in breathless exhiliration as sprouting angiosperms climb skyward and a gossamer sheen illuminates every being on the heath.
A chemist-fay, on his treestump table, rests a clattering vial of dew, beaker of cream and silver ladle. The eremite approaches with questions about his vernal commission. The chemist whispers a reply. The hermit is satisfied.
For now, daisies blanket a sportful field that the naive recluse slides across with gleeful momentum. Fairy blossoms weep happy pearls onto the noses of passersby.
The pensive shroud lifts and the sweet nectar of spring spills in gumdrop showers upon the dappled meadz.
Photo by Onderwijsgek.
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