Each month, the light is a little different. Have you noticed?
Let’s start with spring, when it’s a blend of yellow and green and white.
March: when the harshness of winter fades into a light, crocus-colored rain of sunbeams, sometimes sharpening as winter interrupts, reluctant to loose its hold. But no matter the starkness of the sun or the curse of the clouds—you can see it in the light, the promise of better things.
April fulfills your dreams with its sweet spring sun, a light that’s almost green as it births the blossoms and buds, sings the sleepers awake .
Come May, the light is truly lemon-lime, soaking in the luscious greens of the new leaves and pouring out its vibrance and hope over the buzzing, frisking landscape.
Then summer arrives, and the sun is its yellowest.
In June, it is a pale yellow, to be sure, but smiling and bright and full of laughter nonetheless. It bounces off of pavement and sand in an invitation to play.
Next is July, and now the sun pounds out the most vivid yellow it can muster, spilling over the bucket of the sky, running down the sides of the world in huge swirls of brilliance.
August arrives, and the light steams from the heavens in hazy heat, glaring in its intensity at a world almost washed out from the previous months of yellow passion.
Fall is up next, and the sun turns gold.
September heralds in the new season with a clear, light, vibrant stream of steady sun that tickles the faces of the school-bound children and awakens smiles on already-stressed students.
Then October arrives, and the light transforms to its boldest gold, glinting off of leaves and flinging itself in stark contrast with brilliant blue sky, reveling in the glory that even this dying can bring.
In November, the gold turns pale, old yet not worn, a timeless, ancient swath of shine that eases the way into winter.
Winter—now the light is white.
December ought to welcome in the white, still tinged with gold, but with the talk of starry skies and the frenzy about outdoor lights, the watery sunlight often goes unnoticed.
Come January, however, the sun streams out blinding, pure white, sheets of glass reflecting the shards of snow, and you can’t help but wonder if it’s not really cold—it’s just so hot it feels cold.
Then it’s February, and the relentless white softens to a slushiness, glopping from the clouds in rare moments of crystal glow. The sun still has an edge of iciness to it, but there is a whisper of warmth, too, appearing in the faint yellow at the center of the rays.
And, at last, spring again, and the cycle repeats, and you look forward to the rainbow of the days, the seasons of the sun whispering that perhaps change isn’t such a bad thing after all.