Here in New England, we have four very distinct seasons. Spring doesn’t usually arrive early where I live. In the past week, we had a spell of warm, sunny weather. It was so good to have an extended “taste” of spring. Now it’s cold and gray again.
I was looking for poems about spring this morning. Cold Spring was the second poem I read—and I knew I had found the one I wanted to post today. I love the way Lawrence Raab (and other poets) can use a season, the weather, food—anything—and relate it to something in their lives…to something hidden under the “tangible” surface of things we see, hear, smell, or touch.
By Lawrence Raab
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
You can read the rest of the poem here.