Early Spring

Even with the cold and the snow, there IS a difference in the air and the trees this time of year.  I was saying to Sam the other day, the bare branches of the trees seem like they should look the same as they do in November---but they don't.  They are softer, maybe, or more hazy with almost-yellow color.  It's hopeful, somehow. 

Naturally, Rilke says all this better than I do.  [He was a German poet.  Don't let the "Maria" fool you into thinking he is a woman, as I did for some time.  Although interestingly enough, I read that his mother called him "Sophie" and dressed him in girls' clothes until he was 5 because she had had a baby daughter die earlier.]  So, a Spring poem for you:

Early Spring
by Rainer Maria Rilke

Harshness vanished. A sudden softness
has replaced the meadows' wintry grey.
Little rivulets of water changed
their singing accents. Tendernesses,

hesitantly, reach toward the earth
from space, and country lanes are showing
these unexpected subtle risings
that find expression in the empty trees.


  1. I'm reading The Secret Garden with Lincoln and it has made the awakening of Spring seem so much more magical. And it has made me curse how I'm sure I didn't appreciate the beautiful English Spring I witnessed with you.

    I miss you and I'm assuming that baby hasn't made its entrance yet, but I'm waiting with baited breath!

  2. Um. Not happening down here. Just the incredibly loud roar of the rushing river. I see the blossoms on the trees through the snow that's falling and even have cut some daffs to save them from freezing. But I don't feel it at all yet. Maybe because I have to do so much slogging through the mud?


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