“Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books,
But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.”
W.Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet
Sinking sand
It is so easy to get bogged down.
It is so easy to get dragged down.
I was feeling tired.
I was feeling fed up.
I was feeling generally worn down.
I was finding thinking physically difficult.
I hate moments like this.
There are moments of desert.
There are moments when flowers seem improbable.
And yet they do bloom.
School with heavy looks...
He looked at me glumly.
He was finding thinking physically difficult.
I noted down a few words diagramatically on a piece of rough paper.
I looked up at him.
He looked back at me.
There was a gleam in his eye.
It was if he had been awaken from a prolonged sleep.
There was a connection.
I suddenly felt a spark run through me.
I suddenly felt a whole lot less tired.
This is how I can continue doing what I do, in a desert.
It only takes one flower.
Ice dams.
Winter seems perpetual.
Day after day of cold.
Day after day of chill.
There are moments of darkness.
There are moments when flowers seem improbable.
And yet they do bloom.
My friend Terry sent me some evidence here. (click link)
My friend Kevin sent me some evidence here. (click link)
Joy rises.
This is joy.
This is spring.
This is love.
It is infectious.
Read this Dylan Thomas poem. I do. Every spring. And today I will document for you all the strong proof of that the viral valve of spring is thawed.
ReplyDeleteThe force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.
The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman’s lime.
The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather’s wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.
And I am dumb to tell the lover’s tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.
Meant to include this as well: http://genius.com/Dylan-thomas-the-force-that-through-the-green-fuse-drives-the-flower-annotated
ReplyDeleteThank god for poems. And flowers. And you. And spring.
ReplyDelete