Spring is a prelude

Thoughts on a fugitive season

photo by @girlsonthepage

In Etudes by Elaine Equi, spring is an altitude.

A prelude.

A lassitude.

A platitude.

“The first warm days of spring, give them to me,” says Dorianne Laux in her poem, Come Spring:

Give me the heart of it: pale yellow, frail blue,
trees bare but for the hard buds, the few birds.

To hear the screen door slam again. To shoo
the flies from the house, the bowled fruit.

Pink blossoms cautiously unfurl from their buds like languorous children peeking at loud guests from bedroom corridors, contemplating whether it’s safe to tiptoe out and join the party. Shy at first, then riotous.

This is spring: quiet cocktail reception turned jamboree.

From left: Imogen Cunningham, Magnolia Blossom, 1925, poem by Kobayashi Issa, Centre: Romualdas Rakauskas, Blossoming series, 1974-84, right: Kellie Wilson photographed by Bert Stern for Vogue, 1969, flower hat from Roger Viollet Collection, 1967