In lieu of the recent return of spring, I wrote a poem, inspired by some observations I've made as it's slowly become my favorite season over the years.
I’m tired of people describing spring
as this ephemeral
season of delicacy and tenderness
as if it isn’t just as violent
and vulgar
as it is vulnerable.
Wild thunder follows the lightning
streaking across dark clouds
because the hemispheres are warming up
as the planet tilts its crown toward the sun;
an alarm for what was dormant over winter.
Animals birth their babies,
the trees and seeds yawn, soaking up the pouring rain,
thirsty,
to brazenly flower in a vibrant green.
In fragrant, open blooms,
releasing ingredients for life.
To pollinate. To reproduce.
Yes, these babies are delicate,
and new blooms and new leaves are tender—
but to push and to labor is to endure
bursts
of
pain.
Debilitating, energy consuming.
A product of intimacy, pollination, static charge,
and the clashing of damp atmospheric heat
with the lingering lack of heat from winter.
Quite a different transition from the onset of autumn.
As if bringing in new life takes more
effort than letting dead things go.
As if ushering in the light and warmth
takes more energy than simply turning the heat down.
As if nature knows it must
patiently endure a season of hibernal rest, because it knows
the cost of bringing in what is new.
~here's to the violence of spring
