With Emily Dickinson's help, let's look ahead to Spring and not reward Winter for its bad behavior by noticing its bad behavior. Her poem:
- EW feet within my garden go,
- New fingers stir the sod;
- A troubadour upon the elm
- Betrays the solitude.
- New children play upon the green,
- New weary sleep below;
- And still the pensive spring returns,
- And still the punctual snow!
I read this one as an early-spring poem, with all sorts of creatures visiting the garden and with the troubadour (just flew in from Canada, and gee, are his wings tired) in the elm. The children are just children, I think: sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. "New weary" is interesting. I reckon if you are dead, then there's a certain sense in which you are weary--completely out of energy. Is spring pensive? In a way. It broods. Is snow punctual? Hmmm. Mercurial Ms. Dickinson.
Here's a short poem about Spring; it doesn't quite hide a disdain for politicians.
Winter’s filibuster fades to mumbles.
The delegates are nominating Spring,
signifying their favor by piercing
soil with green digits. Birds work
the precincts, natural politicians:
quick with impromptu speeches,
always groomed, crisply garbed,
well coiffed. I support Spring. I think
it has a lot of good ideas.
Copyright 2007 Hans Ostrom