Spring may just be the most beautiful of the seasons. Personally, autumn is my favorite. I like the crispness and the sweaters and the hot cocoa, but spring is the prettiest. We all know the signs of spring, and we eagerly await them as the snow melts and the rain starts drizzling. The geese dot the sky as they return from their southern trek, the flowers burst and bloom, the cherry trees and daffodils spring forth as if from nowhere, and the chirps of the birds wake us up in the blue mornings.
It’s a season of renewal and freshness. It’s a season that inspires. Today I have some new puzzles that I think are emblematic of spring, and some nice words written by people about the way these gorgeous signs of spring have affected them.
“One day a hummingbird flew in—
It fluttered against the window til I got it down where I could reach it with an open umbrella—
When I had it in my hand it was so small I couldn’t believe I had it—but I could feel the intense life—so intense and so tiny—
…You were like the humming bird to me…
And I am rather inclined to feel that you and I know the best part of one another without spending much time together—
—It is not that I fear the knowing—
It is that I am at this moment willing to let you be what you are to me—it is beautiful and pure and very intensely alive.”
“Some people feel the rain. Others just get wet.”
“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
call to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.”
“There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going to let anybody see you.”
“There is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,
Than tir’d eyelids upon tir’d eyes;
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
Here are cool mosses deep,
And thro’ the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.”
“Kites rise highest against the wind, not with it.”
“I hated roses. I hated them for being so trite, so clichéd, a default, all-purpose flower that said I love you, I’m sorry, and get well soon. Give me peonies and tulips, orchids or gardenia. Those were flowers with character.”
To do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”