Pidcock Creek Swirls, Bowman’s Hill Wildflower Preserve, in just-spring
I don’t know about the rest of you, but I am still searching for ‘just spring’!
More apt this puzzling year than e.e. cummings’ is either Eliot’s “April is the cruellest month” or Whitman’s dirge for our lost Lincoln, “When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom…” “Wasteland”!, indeed… grief beyond explanation or justification, beyond forgetting…
I do have a couple of meagre, wind-whipped hyacinths struggling to unfurl. Of course, just as I discover them, two frisky deer gallop merrily through my back yard. So far, they have not noticed the withered hyacinths nor the gelid daffodils.
Let’s give e.e. a chance, just the same: