numbering the streaks on the tulip

[radfrac_archive_full]

I should have recorded each flower as it bloomed. I haven't written about one.

The day a few weeks ago when the cherry trees loosed their grip and the drifts of pink covered the grass and filled the gutters (and annointed those abandoned monitors we saw at the race.) The chestnut candles waning all along Cook Street. The fields of camus, matted overgrown grass hazed with purple, and the waxy buds, like clusters of violet crayons. In among them, the buttercups, shining like gold records. Or running by a field that looks empty at first, until I realize it's full of white easter lilies, heads hanging down, dreaming into the earth.

Spring seems like a sad time, for the first time this year; everything blooms so beautifully, but for such a short time. I mean to write about it, photograph it, draw it, love it. And then it's gone.

{rf}

Comments

[kainhighwind-dr.livejournal.com]

Ah, but then there is beauty in sadness and the transient. Without brevity, its value would be lost.

Sorry, big fan of wabi-sabi/mono aware ;)

[radiantfracture]

It's true. Other springs I've rejoiced in each wave of blossoms as it came, and felt as though they were heaped one on the other in my memory, or whatever part of us stores colour and scent and light as joy, distilled. This year everything seems too sweet and brief for me to have more than a taste before it's faded away.

{rf}

[(Anonymous)]

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leafs a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Robert Frost

Yep.

Love,

Bee

while we're at it

[radiantfracture]

Márgaret, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves, líke the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Áh! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

(gmh)

while we're at it, indeed

[(Anonymous)]

"sweet spring is your
time is my time is our
time for springtime is lovetime
and viva sweet love"

(all the merry little birds are
flying in the floating in the
very spirits singing in
are winging in the blossoming)

lovers go and lovers come
awandering awondering
but any two are perfectly
alone there's nobody else alive

(such a sky and such a sun
i never knew and neither did you
and everybody never breathed
quite so many kinds of yes)

not a tree can count his leaves
each herself by opening
but shining who by thousands mean
only one amazing thing

(secretly adoring shyly
tiny winging darting floating
merry in the blossoming
always joyful selves are singing)

"sweet spring is your
time is my time is our
time for springtime is lovetime
and viva sweet love"

ee cummings

~leirdal

well if you're going to get all happy and lowercase about it

[radiantfracture]

Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing places
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of a flower here placing
an inch of air there)and

without breaking anything.

or

[radiantfracture]

I smell the smell
Of the orange-flowers
That wait till May to bloom.
And I picture a friend's sleeve,
A friend I knew so well.

(Anonymous poems from Kokinshu)