Say what you will about the blessing of four distinct seasons in New England—the arrival of spring can seldom come a moment too soon.

I say this not to disparage the postcard beauty of our winters, simultaneously serene and character-building as they may be. But as someone who confesses to spending more than a few days each cold season thawing in a certain snowbird-infested southern locale, the notion of cracking a window and seeing sunlight after 5 pm couldn’t find a more welcoming set of arms.

Springtime in New Hampshire has a uniquely restorative effect. It is the time when we tuck away our flannels, turn off our heat, and allow our homes to breathe in that first crisp breath of fresh air. It is a time when our lawns finally begin to unburden themselves and offer us that first glimpse of green; a time when our towns and village greens shake off their coating of sand and salt and start anew for the year.

The poet ee cummings, who spent many a spring and summer writing on his family farm in Madison, would say that “The earth laughs in flowers.” To visit towns like Walpole, Washington, and Portsmouth, where purple lilacs proliferate wildly on rolling hills and in city parks, is to witness this annual miracle. In countless other towns across the state, from Berlin to Mason, another miracle is in full bloom as smokestacks stir to life and syrup season gives us the ideal excuse to load up on sticky, sugary, pancake-topping perfection.

Finally, it comes in the smiles of neighbors and friends, no longer clenched against the bracing winter wind, but in sheer wonder at the natural beauty surrounding us, finally unmasked, returning to life, and consigning that unnamed snowbird-infested southern locale to distant memory.