There is a tipping point in spring. After the grey brutality of winter teasing us with glimpses of hope then coming back in raging force, when it seems winter may never truly be over, something subtle changes. A deep and true warmth, untainted by Jack Frost's bitter chill. A floral scent on the air. The new green of the baby maple leaves creeping bravely sunward. It happens slowly, beneath the surface until suddenly it bursts forth in force. Winter is truly and properly over. Spring has come. The stone table has cracked. What once was dead has come to life.
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