Spring is so very elusive in New Hampshire. Yesterday, conveniently on a day in which we could all hope that the meteorologists were playing a wicked joke on us all, we received snow. Enough snow for a snow day. In April. Though it has since melted quite quickly, as if it was only a test of our optimism. The weather is restless, it seems, and so is everyone else. We're just waiting for something, though we don't particularly know what. So I've been taking pictures, searching for what everyone seems to be anticipating.
I think spring brings the restlessness on by its self. Looking at the bare trees, the dry grass, the darkened sky - everywhere is potential for beauty, for golden sunlight, a warm breeze, and being able to go to the beach without wearing three pairs of socks. And waiting for summer is difficult sometimes. If it doesn't come soon, the collection of people who are taking notice of the change have an almost childish fear of it not coming at all.
I went to the Robert Frost Farm for a project. It didn't feel like any type of work. It was just breath taking to watch the open fields as they seem to breath along with the swelling wind. To look at the house and know that one of the greatest minds in literature once walked on the same paths as you are now. I'm a little jealous, to be honest. Any writer would prosper in a place like that.
Anyone will prosper when they're surrounded by beauty.