‘Miraculous, spring is miraculous, don’t you think?’
They stood together, gazing around them in silence for a moment.
‘Every year we expect it, but there are no guarantees that Nature will do what she did last hear. Then there it is again, the pale-pink apple blossom, the carpets of bluebells, that soft yellow of the primrose …’
Karen laughed. ‘You’ve got it bad.’
‘I know, I know. I don’t care. I just love how happy it makes me feel. [---]’
H. Boyd
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