These grey melancholia days of spring are at times overwhelming.
The dampness chills to the bone.
The relentless wind whipping away at you.
A poet once said April is the cruelest month and days like this I believe him.
In this damp, grey, melancholia world there you sit in a vibrante yellow.
A splash of hope of what is to come.
Forsythia, you chase away the sadness like rays of sunshine growing out of the soil.
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