Spring Returning

A poem for March and the way things change

Photo by Tomás Robertson on Unsplash

SPRING RETURNING

A certain magic occurs
when copper turns green, like
fall eventually becoming spring. Although,
when spring arrives, the oak pollen turns
in the opposite direction.
Buds of chartreuse possibility
emerge, become soft yellow feathers
fluttering in the breeze, descend
and coat the earth in brown mustard dust.

The oak leafrollers are returning, too,
a different shade of neon hanging
from invisible silk strands swaying
against the blue March sky. They are
a nuisance, dangling in pathways,
getting caught in my hair, wrapping
me in sticky webs as I go about my day.
It’s as if they know I am searching for
my own kind of turning. They are
a nuisance, and I love them for it.

Everything is green, and I am
draped in silk. Would that I were
light enough to float on the wind
and undulate with the worms.
I suppose I will settle for
a different kind of softness, one
in which I wrap my arms around
the ones I love, where I offer
the kind of cocoon I cannot give myself.

If you enjoy Letters on Being, please consider sharing it or upgrading to a paid subscription. The regular weekly(ish) letters will always remain free, but paying subscribers also get access to two monthly bonus series: Monthly Considerations and The Sad Poets Society. Your support ensures the continuation of this newsletter and helps bring more art into the world.

WEEKEND POTPOURRI:

• Currently on repeat:

• Finding slowness in today’s world

• A(nother) poem:

IN PERPETUAL SPRING

By Amy Gerstler

Gardens are also good places
to sulk. You pass beds of
spiky voodoo lilies   
and trip over the roots   
of a sweet gum tree,   
in search of medieval   
plants whose leaves,   
when they drop off   
turn into birds
if they fall on land,
and colored carp if they   
plop into water.

Suddenly the archetypal   
human desire for peace   
with every other species   
wells up in you. The lion   
and the lamb cuddling up.
The snake and the snail, kissing.
Even the prick of the thistle,   
queen of the weeds, revives   
your secret belief
in perpetual spring,
your faith that for every hurt   
there is a leaf to cure it.