May Sarton
The days are cold and brown,
Brown fields, no sign of green,
Brown twigs, not even swelling,
And dirty snow in the woods.
But as the dark flows in
The tree frogs begin
Their shrill sweet singing,
And we lie on our beds
Through the ecstatic night,
Wide awake, cracked open.
There will be no going back.
Fine, it's April in New Hampshire, but Maine is just next door and I feel like this poem captures the general gist of right now. All I see out the window is brown gloom. Two squirrels are chasing each other higher and higher into a tree but the branches are a dull brown and the squirrels are an even duller brown. I've never seen a squirrel as high in a tree as this idiot, by the way.
Anyway, my brain tells me that April is always full of sun, spring, warmth, and hope but in reality, it's generally rainy, cool, and brown. But then it suddenly seems to crack open and the air changes, the mood lightens, and breezes have a barely perceptible underlying warmth. Spring joins us. It just joins us a bit later here than in other places. I'll wait.
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