Spring Still Comes

Letting the Earth Hold Me Through Uncertainty

The winter was so long, and it feels like the human world is still in winter with no apparent end in sight. But nature doesn’t care about executive orders. Doesn’t care about petty tyrants and their tantrums and violations. Spring still comes. And with no reservations. It’s been giving me hope, this visceral reminder that growth happens, rebirth happens, change will keep on no matter what, and some will be harrowing and some will be astonishing, relieving, even beautiful, sometimes, if we hang on long enough.

I wish our world was as predictable as the seasons sometimes. How long is this winter? If only we knew, it might be easier to bundle up and warm our hands and face another day of cold, knowing there will come a time when we won’t have to work so hard at getting warm. But then, perhaps something would be lost with all that predictability too. Who would we be if we knew the future, more or less? Would there be less life in us, more complacency?

Regardless, here we are, in our world that is largely not so predictable, though the seasons remain, roughly, proceeding according to plan. And this spring I’ve been taking in as much of the beauty as I can and letting it wash over me so I don’t get pulled back under into despair. It’s largely been working.

Here are some spring-themed poems and photos I’ve taken this spring (as always at Green-Wood Cemetery). I hope there’s a little delight you’re able to take from them, to lighten the heaviness, if only a little bit:

Born Bent

Hard to fathom these tiny leaves
formed already folded up
in budded wombs, then opening
to the world, a kind of origami 
in reverse. How does nature bend
these perfect creases when they 
were never actually made into folds 
but made as folds, to fit them 
in the smallest darkest space 
compressed and gently bulging 
until they emerge at last as little 
green fleur-de-lis, escaping 
point first, slowly outstretching 
their way to fullness.

Unfurl

How quickly the petals explode
into being and wither and fall 
and rust into the dirt and grass
and then there are leaves
and then there are not
again and again. We know
to expect them 
and always a shock 
of delight.

Fleeting Magnolia

Savoring the impermanence
of the white petals, already
dotting the grass below and still 
an almost obscene amount of blossoming,
overwhelming like waking up 
amongst the stars. There is so much 
pain, so much destruction, and
there’s this. How daft we are,
we would forget to see them 
if they weren’t disappearing almost
as soon as they arrive. How little
we understand that joy breaks us
open from the contrast, from 
the constant change, from loss.
While we go on grasping for
a perfect future that will never come.

Liberty and Justice For All

Hard not to look everywhere and see 
the luxuries of freedom, which could 
be taken any moment: choosing how 
to move your body in space. The feeling 
of brisk wind bearing down. Knowing 
whether or not the sun 
is shining. The simple anticipation 
of cherry blossoms, dogwood 
blooms, azaleas flaunting their 
flamboyant hues. Getting to spot 
the bright twitch of cardinal before
it evaporates. Even the wistful ache 
of magnolias dwindling, the luxury 
of space to grieve all that 
will inevitably be lost.

Prolonging

So grateful spring
is not a sudden suffocation
of beauty but a rolling
cycle of newness: these
blooms, now these
leaves turning the horizon
more and more 
lime green. And soon
the frill of cherry blossom
flirting with the sky.
And on and on always 
with something new to love
until the heavy
breath of summer.

Spring Transition

It seems I’ve merely turned
my back and already
an exuberance of red leaves
soon enough to deepen
to purple black, eventually
to green. I love the journey
the copper beech travels
to find its summer look.
Some of us require
transformation as much
as we need the warmth
of the sun’s emanation
to carry us through.

Thank you for reading. I hope amongst the ugliness you’re also able to find some wonder.