My antipathy toward summer is well-recorded, as is the splash-back of this feeling on spring.
I should like spring—time to get out and rediscover this city, the light, the green.
Pity I do not.
Kay Ryan reminds me to go gentle with this season, and all the springs we experience, and to live this spring as itself, and not just on the way to something else.
Still, for those for whom this is insufficiently celebratory, there is a bonus poem—a classic.
You know what it is.
But first, Ryan:
Green Behind the Ears
I was still slightly
fuzzy in shady spots
and the tenderest lime.
It was lovely, as I
look back, but not
at the time. For it is
hard to be green and
take your turn as flesh.
So much freshness
to unlearn.
——
The formatting doesn’t hold in html, but you still get it. Of course: e.e. cummings:
in just-
in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it’s
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
the queer
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
it’s
spring
and
the
goat-footed
balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee
AbsurdBeats 