Tuesday, March 24, 2015

from a little birdie

We're just a few days into spring and though windows are open to warmer air and wasps are busy in the shrubs below, it feels we've not yet crossed over.  Fine by me.  I like a cool spring, one that takes us into its season as slowly as I leave my morning bed.

One of birth is how Poet Sparrow thinks of spring, followed by one of florescence, one of harvest, and then one of contemplation

I recently put the question to friends; which is your favorite? 

Aren't we prone to pick our favorite, define it as the best and defend our choice?  White wine over red, peonies over roses, jazz over country . . .  We have our favorite seasons and can list them in order of preference.  

Mine have changed across the years, much like my grandmother said my taste buds would, every seven years as that wives' tale goes. 
I like autumn the most.  I get a childish thrill choosing pumpkins, and excited when bursts of wind blow leaves across my path.  Spring comes next with planting pots of this and bigger pots of that, and herbs thriving on the patio just steps from the kitchen.  Summer and winter tie for each is to me, extreme.  Scorching hot or freezing cold.

The power of a poet's words, not the passing of years, may have forever changed how I think of the seasons.  Consider again, those words Sparrow presented; birth, florescence, harvest, and contemplation, singly rich with vast meanings.  

Birth can represent Christmas Day as easily as Easter represents rebirth.  Harvest, foremost in our mind gives us visions of fall and Thanksgiving yet early peas, asparagus, and radishes are little jewels of spring harvests.  Some summers still find me and Spoke stringing strands of chili pepper lights in the kitchen but florescence also brings to my mind the glow cast by a small spotlight on the framed Madonna which we light up throughout the year.  Contemplation, time we devote to private thoughts or musings, may be as focused when we're forced indoors by summer's afternoon heat, as by winter evenings.

Sparrow has given us such a gift with just four little words.  Never will I think of the seasons in the way I always have; separate, ranked, and judged.  They are now intertwined, embraced, and celebrated.

Thank you, Poet Sparrow.