Three days into spring, winter threw a haymaker of a cheap shot.
“The first day of spring is one thing, and the first spring day is another,” observed the underappreciated observer Henry Van Dyke. “The difference between them is sometimes as great as a month.”
The snowstorm that descended on Colorado’s Front Range earned its blizzard designation, and the additional flurry of late jabs from Mother Nature on the final days of March led to an overflowing of white whine. Anne Bradstreet, from Meditations Divine and Moral: “If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant: if we did not sometimes taste adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome.”
Mere days have passed since the last snowfall, and already the lawns are green. The frosted foothills have melted into spring.
After a few weekends trapped indoors, we set the hounds of spring on winter’s traces. The dogs took advantage of the lingering patches of snow, wallowing as gleeful as Donald Trump in front of television cameras.
But enough politics. It is spring, “(a) time abhorrent to the nihilist.” There is plenty of time for vitriol in the stagnant heat of summer and the reluctant transition of autumn.
From The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam:
“Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
The Winter garment of Repentance fling:
the Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly—and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.”
This week, I fling the figurative Winter garment of Repentance into the fire of Spring. On Sunday, Wyatt literally put the Bird on the Wing, sending a flock of gossipy wild turkeys scattering. Humans are afflicted with the occasionally anguishing ability to distinguish between instinct and reason, but we can also choose to follow the former when the latter seems unreasonable.
I love Billie Holiday, but it’s a dangerous prospect to wait for “Some Other Spring.”