I find spring rain a very interesting phenomenon.
It’s no different from other rains: splashing down on pretty things so that the first ray of sunlight that threads down from heaven finds a world that is slightly blander in colour than yesterday. It beats the helpless petals down to the ground and lay them in mud; it tears the newly grown leaves apart from their mother branches, layering the mud with another green palette; it torments the brittle branches that barely survived the harsh whipping of winter winds, the mad and loud fall rain, and the unforgiving heat of summer rays. It breaks things, like all other rains.
But it is pretty: not the strikingly bright and colourful kind of beauty in fall with the dashing oranges and reds and yellows, not the mellow and painful beauty of winter that combines the marshmallow and cotton candy texture with the icy bone-chilling feel in snow. Spring runs a soft series of colours: french macaron greens, baby bedsheets pinks, vanilla shakes milky whites, coupled with the ( thing) blues. if rain was a little boy that liked to wreck havoc in the world by painting the world over with different palettes of colour determined by the season, then God gave him palette too beautiful to go wrong in spring. It doesn’t matter what he does, the colours are made to be thrown together.
For its beauty, we willingly forgive and romanticise what it has done. While we grief the unforgiving thunderings of summer and storms of the winter, we call spring precipitation, exactly the same in nature with all the other types of precipitation, gentle nurturing and soft sobbing of the heavens.
Waking up to a drizzling in the morning no longer means gross muddy boots and a tighter buttoned coat and furry socks to keep feet warm, like it did in the winter. Wet spring mornings are enjoyable, to be looked forward to, to be admired.
The sakura at the corner of the street stands tall, but its petals aren’t as thick as the morning before, and you no longer can enact the romantic movie scenes where pinkness swoosh down from the branches to revolve around you like you’re the one that the tree has been waiting for its whole 93 years of life. It’s regrettable that the rain is being pitiless to the beauties of the world but if you look closely, aren’t the pink petals delicately laying about the tree backgrounded by the shade of green that seemed to be perfectly there to match the pink? The grass brings new life to the otherwise dead flowers that have found themselves snuggling comfortably and are still beautiful.
Look around more. The daisies that were next to your doorsteps now droop as it mourns over its fallen petals, yet the ground is brushed over with another careless stroke of white, bringing more spring to the boring ground.
Flowers of every sort stretch their necks and blossom and blush, competing for their own flower pageant beauty show they have been aching for all through the dull winter.
The leaves, coated with dew or rain, reflects the sunlight ever more brightly. Layers and layers of green dance in front you of as you walk out of your door, almost hurting your eyes from the sheer amount of … greens there are, more than words can attempt to describe them.
Like the heavy velvet stage curtains that open up to one after another glamorous scenes, the green forage in front you opens you up to a world of unbelievable colour, with reds and pinks and yellows and whites and purple being thrown together and blended up messily but better than any artist could have mustered up. A green canvas, sketched over with sturdy browns, detailed with a few careless strokes of surprising yellows and orange, smudged with some more purples and turquoise, blended with dabs of pinks here and there, and finally dip the whole upper half of the painting in light blue for the ubiquitous skies that helps brings out the colours even more. This is spring.
Spring is the canvas.
Spring rain is the artist.