where the writers are
Royal Purple Spring

I've been cooped up all weekend working on revisions, editing and reviews. Outside it was raining. Charcoal-smudged clouds hid the sun and my eyes were all for the page. Words and phrases, spelling and grammar, and a bit of inspiration and imagination along the way to making the current book better. Day passed into night and back into day again and all without me noticing what was happening beyond the doorway.

Sometimes it's like that, the only sound in the silence my fingers tapping on the keyboard or the nib of my fountain pen scratching and sliding across the page. Nothing exists, but the words and the forms imposed on them. 

The rain stopped and a glimmer of light reached down between the stone garage next door and my cottage, so I opened the window to breathe air that wasn't laced with silence and breakfast remnants. A freshly washed breeze tickled the hairs dangling in my eyes and I pushed them back and inhaled the scent of spring now that it had finally arrived. There was something more, a soft purple scent. I couldn't place it at first and just breathed it in. Lilac. There were lilacs growing and preening in the sunshine, warming pale lilac buds and coaxing the green coverings to curl and let the blooms burst out. Lilacs, the aroma of mid spring, the scent of May. Lilacs.

Moving slowly and ponderously after sitting so long, I stood up, tested stiff limbs and leaden hind quarters and  went to the front door. Yes, there were lilacs on the breeze, white lilacs across the parking lot protected by a warped wooden fence nodding and dripping with white blossoms. Drawn to the scent, I took a tentative step onto the porch, moving closer to the heavenly smell and stepped down onto the hot macadam. I forgot my shoes. It didn't matter. There were lilacs ahead of me, lilacs beyond and lilacs to the left, a bright green hedgeof burgeoning royal lilacs dark purpleand dripping with rain and spring. Lilacs.

I closed my eyes and breathed, taking the lilacs deep into my nose and up into my head to clear the fug and detritus of too many hours sitting, two days of toiling under the sweet lash of the muse and countless moments of spring caught in the freezing fist of greedy winter. 

May is when the lilacs bloom, when I first moved to this secluded cottage set back from the road and tucked against the shadowed side of the stone garage between me and the mountains where Pikes Peak's hoary head and shoulders guard the valley. Two years ago, sidling past half empty boxes and furniture abandoned in neat islands of comfort, when the cabinets and counters looked too empty and too big to fill, I woke to dewed lilacs warming in the early morning and inhaled spring and possibility.

And there is still so much to do.