A love letter to spring

You arrive without an introduction, without consulting my calendar. At some point, one simply realises that something has already begun to change. The light is different now - it is not only brighter, but more saturated, as though the world had deepened its colours overnight. It lingers with a certain warmth, aware of being felt, and welcome. Before this light, even the still-bare branches seem less convinced of their own emptiness.

I notice you before I understand you, and I find myself wanting to learn your language.

You do not come with brightness alone. There is restraint in you, a kind of calm. You move beneath the surface of things, adjusting them gently. Time completely loosens its hold. What once seemed closed, perhaps permanently, begins - almost imperceptibly - to open up.

What is it that you alter so precisely?

Not the world itself, at least not entirely. It is the way one stands within it. Attention grows. Moments from daily life extend slightly beyond their borders, spilling into a strange mixture of excitement and peace. A passing exchange, a shared silence - these linger, as if held there on purpose. Was that your intention all along?

You have a way of rearranging time.

It slows and quickens at once, without weight. It becomes generous, and even goodbyes carry a lovely tenderness. Within that space, the smallest gestures begin to matter. The simple act of staying becomes the most special thing. Out of everything that could unfold, everything that calls and disperses the day, there is something almost astonishing in this quiet choice - you give me your time. This shared stillness, however brief, carries more than its duration can explain.

You do not insist on clarity. In some sense, you are clarity.

What you bring is more delicate than any definition. A subtle alignment, perhaps. The sense that something has been found without ever having been sought. It leaves no visible trace, and yet it alters the structure of the ordinary. Outside, you begin to reveal yourself more openly. The air carries a promise I find myself trusting. People around move as though released from something unknown. It is all very slight, and yet it gathers.

You recall those beautiful, luminous Ghibli-esque worlds where nothing is forced into significance, yet everything holds it - a flower, a cloud, a gentle caress of the wind. Where time does not hurry itself away from what really matters.

Hope follows you softly, and I let it come closer. You move me.

You do not even try to resolve anything; instead, you simplify everything. This hope within you simply exists - illuminated - turning towards me as if to ask whether I can remain with it. And I know that I can. The world feels more permeable now. Less closed.

I do not ask you to stay; I don’t think I need to.

Perhaps you would not, even if I did. Yet something in your presence remains, even as you change and move on. A lovely, most generous warmth - strangely familiar, almost like my own. A sense of possibility that brings me to happy tears.

I’ve been waiting for you. You are more than enough.

It is pouring now, mainly from my heart. The trees are deepening in colour before my eyes, and I find I cannot look away from them for long; I don’t want to.

If this is how you arrive, I’m glad I will recognise you each time.