Spring again

[pjthompson]

Spring Again

  "If they do these things in the green tree,
  what shall be done in the dry? "
            —Luke xxiii

At the end of that lengthy winter, after the snow
Had vanished into the ground, leaving on top
The refuse of a dead season—leaves and stalks
And all possible forms of pastness, withered and brown—
It was hard to be sure
That the land would heave again, and breathe, and proceed
With the vast labor of spring. At least, for an author,
The chance that the annual miracle might not occur
Was worth some attention, since there was always
Some kind of market somewhere for Fantasy Fiction.

He could describe the annual chores—the turning of earth,
The raking, clearing, seeding, planting—based
On the normal and healthy assumption that this year, like last,
Something would come of it all, something green, something edible,
And life with corn and potatoes would go on.
And then he could switch to the faces of men and describe
All the mounting phases of loss,
As the spring that was not to be spring advanced, and the summer
That never would come
Hovered where bluejays and larks would have been, if only
A valve or a switch or a faucet no one could fix
Had not, after all these years, somehow got clogged.

So ran an author's thoughts in that season of brown,
Thoughts of a new Jeremiah looking for something
Salable even as shoots of green began groping
Their way in the dark to the surface of things,
And robins appeared on schedule, and buds swelled.

—Reed Whittemore