The Velvet Pulse of Spring

The smell of damp earth after a long, brittle winter is a heavy, sweet perfume that clings to the back of the throat. It is the scent of waking up. When I press my palms against the cool, waxy skin of a petal, I feel a vibration that has nothing to do with sound and everything to do with the slow, rhythmic push of life through a stem. It is a quiet, insistent pressure, the way a heartbeat thrums against the ribs when you are finally still. We spend so much time moving through the world as if it were made of glass, forgetting that we are also made of the same soil and water that feeds the bloom. There is a memory in the fingertips of how it feels to unfold, to stretch toward a warmth that has been absent for too long. If you press your ear to the ground, can you hear the earth exhaling its long-held breath?

Jose Renteria has captured this exact sensation of awakening in his beautiful image titled Michinoku. It feels like the first moment the frost finally lets go of the world. Does this image stir a dormant memory in your own skin?