Here in Brooklyn, the weather can't seem to make up its mind about what season it is. Just when I get to put on my flip flops and remember to shave my legs, walking everywhere with an iced coffee in hand, the sky turns gray and I'm back in the house wearing sweaters again.
Spring is always a mixed-up season that can't decide if it wants to be sunny and flowery and pink, or gray and rainy and mossy. I happen to love both kinds of spring, and apparently so so a lot of other writers. Poets especially seem to latch onto something about the transience of the season. Here are some great spring poems, what are your favorites?
when the world is mud-
far and wee
from marbles and
the world is puddle-wonderful
bettyandisbel come dancing
hop-scotch and jump-rope and
Despite the somewhat creepy shadow-figure of the “goat-footed balloonman,” I think this is one of the most delicious spring poems, mostly because of the language. What is spring if not “mud-lucious” and “puddle-wonderfull”?
“Two Tramps in Mud Time”
sun was warm but the wind was chill.
know how it is with an April day
the sun is out and the wind is still,
one month on in the middle of May.
if you so much as dare to speak,
cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
wind comes off a frozen peak,
you’re two months back in the middle of March.
bluebird comes tenderly up to alight
fronts the wind to unruffle a plume
song so pitched as not to excite
single flower as yet to bloom.
is snowing a flake: and he half knew
was only playing possum.
in color he isn’t blue,
he wouldn’t advise a thing to blossom.
water for which we may have to look
summertime with a witching wand,
every wheel rut’s now a brook,
every print of a hoof a pond.
glad of water, but don’t forget
lurking frost in the earth beneath
will steal forth after the sun is set
show on the water its crystal teeth.
The perfect description of the tricks the weather plays this time of year. I love the idea of a bluebird advising the flowers on the best time to bloom.
year spring and summer decided
make it quick, roll themselves into one
of three days
steam right out of the winter.
the front yard the reluctant
buds lost control
suddenly stood wide open.
days later their pale pink silks
up around the trunk
how long spring used to take?
how long from the first locking of fingers
the first real kiss?
other eternity, endless motion
the undoing of a button?
I've been feeling this way a lot about the seasons in general, but especially Spring. They used to seem so endless! I love how Mueller uses spring as a metaphor to describe something more specific: the way intimacy, both in our perceptions and behaviors, also evolves as we get older.