faces called flowers

 A recent post from one of my favorite substacks (go check out Anne Boyd Rioux's Audacious Women, Creative Lives), asked readers to comment on something that's been bringing them joy lately. My joy right now is flowers on flowers on flowers. I've managed to visit botanical gardens in four different cities in the past month or so: Cologne, Frankfurt, Berlin, and Amsterdam. And just today, a couple friends took me to a semi secret street in Mainz, Ritterstraße, that is lined with the most beautiful pink and white cherry blossoms.

                           

Growing up in Florida, I had a particularly fantastical world of nature--alligator eyes in the swamp, catching lizards in the leaves, creeks full of blood red tannins--but what we didn't have were well-defined seasons. Perhaps an eternally green summer has its pros, but there's something about the change of seasons that serves as a reminder of the ephemeral. Maybe it's because I had a particular difficult winter, but when Spring finally comes it's like snorting happiness with every breath. Suddenly the streets are full of people and everything feels so much more alive. I still remember my first spring away from home while in college in St. Louis. I was amazed at the sense of renewal and energy that came with things blooming and turning green. I had to recite a poem for my Intro to Poetry class and I performed this one from E.E. Cummings with all the gusto in the world, the energy building with each stanza: 

when faces called flowers float out of the ground

and breathing is wishing and wishing is having-

but keeping is downward and doubting and never

-it’s april(yes,april;my darling)it’s spring!

yes the pretty birds frolic as spry as can fly

yes the little fish gambol as glad as can be

(yes the mountains are dancing together)

when every leaf opens without any sound

and wishing is having and having is giving-

but keeping is doting and nothing and nonsense

-alive;we’re alive,dear:it’s(kiss me now)spring!

now the pretty birds hover so she and so he

now the little fish quiver so you and so i

(now the mountains are dancing, the mountains)

when more than was lost has been found has been found

and having is giving and giving is living-

but keeping is darkness and winter and cringing

-it’s spring(all our night becomes day)o,it’s spring!

all the pretty birds dive to the heart of the sky

all the little fish climb through the mind of the sea

(all the mountains are dancing;are dancing)

I remember my professor being delighted that it was my first real spring. And I stand by E.E. Cummings as the best writer of spring--nothing beats mud-luscious and puddle wonderful. A literary it-girl in my class had recited part of T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land after proclaiming the hyacinth girl her muse. She even read the poem in this perfectly adroit poet cadence. I remember feeling so embarrassed for not knowing who or what was the hyacinth girl. The professor, of course, was ready to extoll the merits of The Waste Land as a choice of poem. Of course my option was much more "cute." But now I am glad to report that my class on modernism starting next week includes zero signs of Eliot and in fact nary a man. Though I did have a visceral reaction to reading Four Quartets for my comps exam--who's the literary it-girl now!