There should be a word in the English language to describe the feeling when winter lifts its dreary hold, and spring casts its tentative gaze upon the barren, battered land.

When the cold, dull sky unleashes rain, and not snow, cleansing the streets of salt and sand­—dull, grey, and weary—releasing a smell so sweet and pure that it demolishes the fortification that staves off longing.

A word that describes the sensation when cells of the eye, long relieved of their duty, first register green after its seasonal hiatus from the world.

The quiver of hope that spring has finally taken up residence once more when the red breasted robins return to scour the newly thawed ground for worms, barely roused from their slumber.

But alas the eager robin has arrived while winter’s tendrils still linger, and so they sit fat and dour in the trees, wondering, like all of us, why they ever came to this godforsaken place.

There should be a word for the marvelous day you finally hear the robin’s triumphant song tweet tweeting over and over again, marking the end of life exiled.

Only then is it time to pack away the winter boots and coats, clean the closet of muck and mess, dutifully move the shovels to the back of the garage, and be reborn again in the feeling that there is no word to describe.

by Susan Wingert