Of course, you would find youth in its embodiment. The epitome of adolescence is unburdened by a mortal shell, and instead lives vivaciously in the purity of an immortal boy. Him, Spring, grows alongside all things, budding flowers that reap viscous dew, pink hatch-lings that press their bodies against their sisters. He is the viscous dew that the blossoms reap, the velvety, fluffed underside of a mother's wing.
No one has ever beheld such beauty. His whimsical smiles fail to hide the playfulness and mischief of the coming season, for everyone knows when Spring wakes up, childish devilry is inevitable. He is the whisper of a wish into a dandelion, the flower crown of weeds in a school courtyard, he is his own admiration of such loving acts.
His skin is painted in all colors, and within it beats a golden heart that seeps opalescent ichor. You can see it radiate in his skin, his hands, his eyes, his entirety. He leaves trails of life when he walk, and it bounces off the grounds, the leaves, the animals, endlessly for eternity. So he steps and steps, the paragon of rebirth and zealous childhood devotion. Spring thaws cold minds, and so he touches everything at once. He is the yellow blur on a peach, the thunder of torrential downpours, the vapor of breath slipping through the pouts of one's lips and into the cold.
They say when he laughs, you can hear the beating wings of a flock of birds. His eyes are familiar because you have seen them time and time again. The way he, though so young, poises himself terribly elegant, balancing entropy and all things orderly, is something to be marveled. He is the lovers' hands that brush against river waters, he is the child's heart etched into bark.
Spring is emotional, the way all boys are, and when he weeps, his sobs still act as songs, warm and colorful tears rolling over youthful hands as if painted on, and you can see that nothing has ever been tame. You'd have never seen gold eyes so dim, or such lucidity so tainted, with small, slender hands covering a quivering mouth. He is the lotus who has lost its lily-pad, the slit on the ear of a kitten, the flowers that grow beside gravestones.
Such a fate is difficult, to become the soul of spring, spurring life in all things meant to perish. Is such an act worth it in the end? He will never stop thinking this. Despite his tears, "Of course," the boy would say, resting his head gently on the grass, his bed on the world that he has created.
Picture by Jasogag Photography
