Springs are not always the same, In some years, April bursts upon our Virginia hills in one prodigious leap—and all the stage is filled at once, whole choruses of tulips, arabesques of forsythia, cadenzas of flowering plum. The trees grow leaves overnight.

In other years, spring tiptoes in. It pauses, overcome by shyness, like my grandchild at the door, peeping in, ducking out of sight, giggling in the hallway. "I know you"re out there," I cry. "Come in!" And April slips into arms.

The dogwood bud, pale green, is inlaid with russet markings. With in the perfect cup a score of clustered seeds are nestled. Once examined the bud in awe: Where were those seeds a month ago The apples display their milliner"s scraps of ivory silk, rose-tinged. All the sleeping things wake up-primrose, baby iris, blue phlox. The earth warms-you can smell it, feel it, crumble April in your hands.

The dark Blue Mountains in which I dwell, great-hipped, big-breasted, slumber on the western sky. And then they stretch and gradually awaken. A warm wind, soft as a girl"s hair, moves sailboat clouds in gentle skies. The rain come-good rains to sleep by-and fields that were dun as oatmeal turn to pale green, then to Kelly green.