I want to write something about spring

I want to write something about spring,
about the scent of the tomato seedlings on the window sill
about the way the tiny glassy hairs on their stems catch the sunlight
and glitter like gold and silver tinsel.
I want to write about how I imagine the soil will feel,
when it is warm enough to plant them,
how I remember it feeling last year,
and the year before.
I want to write about the first pale asparagus shoots
pushing up through the straw,
about the daffodils, bowing down in the rain,
and the buds swelling on the roses,
the sepals no longer able to stretch enough to hide their colours.
I want to write about the scent of the plum blossom
on the ravaged plum tree with its few remaining branches,
how every year its scent is a promise of plums
that is never fulfilled,
but always forgiven
because the scent is precious enough.

I want to write something that stores today,
that preserves the hope and anticipation of spring,
like jam stores the scent of summer
and all the reds, purples and golds of autumn,
so any winter day you can open a jar
and taste the sweetness of those seasons again.
But spring is too delicate.
The soft-sweet scent of the daffodils is too elusive,
the crispness of the first asparagus too transient.
Spring cannot be kept in the store cupboard
as anything other than a sadly wilted memento mori.

So I am trying to save today in words.

But there are no words
to describe the scent of tomato seedlings on the windowsill.
Other than, perhaps, hope and anticipation.