34 Spring poems

One spring day I saw the shadow of a strawberry tree lying on the moor like a shy lamb asleep. Its heart was far away, suspended in the sky, brown in a brown veil, in the sun’s eye. The shadow played in the wind, moving there alone to make the tree content. Here and there it shone. It knew no pain, no haste, wanting only to feel morning, then noon, then the slow-paced journey of evening. Among all the shadows always joining eternal shadow, shrouding the earth in falseness, I loved this steady shadow. And thus, at times, it descends among us, this meek semblance, and lies down, as if drained, in grass and in patience.

The last few gray sheets of snow are gone, winter’s scraps and leavings lowered to a common level. A sudden jolt of weather pushed us outside, and now this larger world once again belongs to us. I stand at the edge of it, beside the house, listening to the stream we haven’t heard since fall, and I imagine one day thinking back to this hour and blaming myself for my worries, my foolishness, today’s choices having become the accomplished facts of change, accepted or forgotten. The woods are a mangle of lines, yet delicate, yet precise, when I take the time to look closely. If I’m not happy it must be my own fault. At the edge of the lawn my wife bends down to uncover a flower, then another. The first splurge of crocuses. And for a moment the sweep and shudder of the wind seems indistinguishable from the steady furl of water just beyond her.

Early April and there’s a light-footed feel. Nothing troubles from the darkened underbrush, and the sun’s late beauty daubs the green wood with yellows. As if for you, a thrush rills, blue pieces of silver that will dry like watermarks. Almost delicate, the hour around seven, a blown-glass bowl, edgeless and honed, made bespoke. Yet somewhere inside this evening hour, a man refutes: his fist will not burden the kitchen table. A wintered heart, hard as a knot of holly.

Fresh spring the herald of loves mighty king, In whose cote armour richly are displayed All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring In goodly colours gloriously arrayd: Goe to my love, where she is carelesse layd, Yet in her winters bowre not well awake: Tell her the joyous time wil not be staid Unless she doe him by the forelock take. Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make, To wayt on love amongst his lovely crew: Where every one that misseth then her make, Shall be by him amearst with penance dew. Make hast therefore sweet love, whilest it is prime, For none can call againe the passèd time.

april is a dog's dream the soft grass is growing the sweet breeze is blowing the air all full of singing feels just right so no excuses now we're going to the park to chase and charge and chew and I will make you see what spring is all about

With spring in our flesh the cranes come back, funneling into a north cold and black. And we go out to them, go out into the town, welcoming them with shouts, asking them down. The winter flies away when the cranes cross. It falls into the north, homeward and lost. Let no one call it back when the cranes fly, silver birds, red-capped, down the long sky.

If ever there were a spring day so perfect, so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze that it made you want to throw open all the windows in the house and unlatch the door to the canary's cage, indeed, rip the little door from its jamb, a day when the cool brick paths and the garden bursting with peonies seemed so etched in sunlight that you felt like taking a hammer to the glass paperweight on the living room end table, releasing the inhabitants from their snow-covered cottage so they could walk out, holding hands and squinting into this larger dome of blue and white, well, today is just that kind of day.

Spring comes little, a little. All April it rains. The new leaves stick in their fists; new ferns still fiddleheads. But one day the swifts are back. Face to the sun like a child You shout, 'The swifts are back!' Sure enough, bolt nocks bow to carry one sky-scyther Two hundred miles an hour across fullblown windfields. Swereee swereee. Another. And another. It's the cut air falling in shrieks on our chimneys and roofs. The next day, a fleet of high crosses cruises in ether. These are the air pilgrims, pilots of air rivers. But a shift of wing, and they're earth-skimmers, daggers Skilful in guiding the throw of themselves away from themselves. Quick flutter, a scimitar upsweep, out of danger of touch, for Earth is forbidden to them, water's forbidden to them, All air and fire, little owlish ascetics, they outfly storms, They rush to the pillars of altitude, the thermal fountains. Here is a legend of swifts, a parable — When the Great Raven bent over earth to create the birds, The swifts were ungrateful. They were small muddy things Like shoes, with long legs and short wings, So they took themselves off to the mountains to sulk. And they stayed there. 'Well,' said the Raven, after years of this, 'I will give you the sky. You can have the whole sky On condition that you give up rest.' 'Yes, yes,' screamed the swifts, 'We abhor rest. We detest the filth of growth, the sweat of sleep, Soft nests in the wet fields, slimehold of worms. Let us be free, be air!' So the Raven took their legs and bound them into their bodies. He bent their wings like boomerangs, honed them like knives. He streamlined their feathers and stripped them of velvet. Then he released them,Never to Return Inscribed on their feet and wings. And so We have swifts, though in reality, not parables but Bolts in the world's need: swift Swifts, not in punishment, not in ecstasy, simply Sleepers over oceans in the mill of the world's breathing. The grace to say they live in another firmament. A way to say the miracle will not occur, And watch the miracle.

It's too soon for the front porch swing. No crocuses are opeing. The wind is from the north and chill. No matter. Spring is here. I still Am bound to sit and swing out there And feel it in the evening air. It's much too cold. The trees are lean And leafless—not a sign of green. It's foolishness to sit outside. The mockingbird has testified To spring's existence, and I see The buds are on the almond tree. I'm sure it's spring. How do you know? I think a cricket told me so.

Nothing is so beautiful as Spring – When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing; The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling. What is all this juice and all this joy? A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning In Eden garden. – Have, get, before it cloy, Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning, Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy, Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning.