space tastes of the amazement which is hope

now winging selves sing sweetly, while ghosts(there
and here)of snow cringe;dazed an earth shakes sleep
out of her brightening mind:now everywhere
space tastes of the amazement which is hope

gone are those hugest hours of dark and cold
when blood and flesh to inexistence bow
(all that was doubtful's certain,timid's bold;
old's youthful and reluctant's eager now)

anywhere upward somethings yearn and stir
piercing a tangled wrack of wishless known:
nothing is like this keen(who breathes us)air
immortal with the fragrance of begin

winter is over - now(for me and you,
darling!)life's star prances the blinding blue

e.e. cummings


Spring is my favourite time of the year, when the flowers seem to burst forth overnight in a riot of colour and life. I remember my very first spring in England, when I was living in North Court in Emma. I remember looking out the window one morning and realising with a joyous little hiccup that the big old tree in the courtyard was - so suddenly! - a colour it hadn't been for the past five months. It was such an ancient, gnarled, worn thing - but each spring its leaves were as tender and fresh and green and dewy as though the world, and everything in it, was being gilded in the golden light of morning for the very first time.