THE POET e.e. cummings (1894-1962) said it way better than I could:
in Just- spring when the world is mud- luscious the little lame baloonman whistles far and wee and eddieandbill come running from marbles and piracies and it's spring when the world is puddle-wonderful the queer old baloonman whistles far and wee and bettyandisbel come dancing from hop-scotch and jump-rope and it's spring and the goat-footed baloonMan whistles far and wee from Tulips and Chimneys (1923)
I don’t know how luscious the mud is, or how wonderful the puddles, and the little lame balloon man has been replaced in my mind by the Felco-wielding flower man at the corner deli (the one who combines your tulips, roses, and pussy willows into a bouquet with such finesse) as a harbinger of spring.
But I sure appreciate the glow of yellow forsythia and the pale pre-emergent pink of the magnolias against the wet brownstones. They are hope, and reassurance that all is unfolding as it is supposed to. How do they know it’s time?
It’s enough to make you a believer.