In Just-Spring

THE POET e.e. cummings (1894-1962) said it way better than I could:

in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame baloonman 

whistles far and wee 

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring 

when the world is puddle-wonderful 

the queer
old baloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing 

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and 

it's
spring
and 

 the 

goat-footed 

baloonMan whistles
far
and
wee 

from Tulips and Chimneys (1923)

I don’t know how luscious the mud is, or how wonderful the puddles, and the little lame balloon man has been replaced in my mind by the Felco-wielding flower man at the corner deli (the one who combines your tulips, roses, and pussy willows into a bouquet with such finesse) as a harbinger of spring.

But I sure appreciate the glow of yellow forsythia and the pale pre-emergent pink of the magnolias against the wet brownstones. They are hope, and reassurance that all is unfolding as it is supposed to. How do they know it’s time?

It’s enough to make you a believer.