Although I’ve found, I can’t count on spring to honor its promise–lovely sunny days, flowers, and such–I can create my own warm place of poetry in the inner garden of my mind. I’ve worked for two years now, I think, on creating a poetic space; now it’s time to write the poetry.
Today, though we’re in spring (official) but not spring (proper), I dedicated a small stone of free-verse poetry to Fickle Spring. It’s 10:00 am in Spokane, WA and it’s 43 degrees, cloudy, wet and cold. This is the kind of cold you can’t escape. It sticks to you, and it even seems to be chasing people around. At least, it seems everyone is hurrying back and forth to their cars quicker than what I think is usual. Today’s high is going to be 56 degrees, but to get there we’ll experience the clash of two opposite weather systems which will create winds up to 50 mph.
I know it WILL come, but some days I begin to wonder…will this be the year Spring skips us?
So, here is my rant poem about Spring, followed by a pleasanter one by Emily Dickinson.
Spring struggles to arrive
Heavy winds bring ten degree warmer days
Then, heavy winds bring ten degree colder ones.
People hurry about, irritably, having dressed in sunshine
They are not prepared for midday snow.
There are crocus, snowdrops and daffodils
Finally, but barely, out of the ground
Leaves, yes, but no flowers, green spikes
Against a backdrop of mud.
Memories, I dig them up like warranties:
Spring ’05, we wore tank-tops with tan arms,
And that once wonderful April
When we wrote poetry out on the lawn.
Spring is like a fickle friend
We’ve learned we cannot trust,
It lavishes us with attention one day
Makes us co-dependent of itself
Then, just as quickly, turns its back
Acts as if we’ve never known each other at all.
It has no conscience, really,
Even when we beg it back
It won’t be made to feel guilty
It does what it will, when it wants
And, in the end, only comes forth
When we’ve given up hope it ever will.
And now, from Miss Emily D.
A Light exists in Spring
by Emily Dickinson
A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period —
When March is scarcely here
A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.
It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.
Then as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay —
A quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament.