Forty springs are little room
I wonder how I will welcome the advent of spring in Paris. Spring in Paris! Whom will I run to? Never knew its warm embrace.
The cafés had their tables out on the street today for the first time. I sat outside. It was cold. It's only 2 weeks from February. It's only 2 weeks till April. April in Paris. I'd never known the charm of.
Tomorrow is the Ides of March. Beware!
Where was I one year ago today? I was walking around Cylburn Arboretum in Baltimore, knowing spring was one week away and just millimeters below the ground. The daffodils were high enough to waggle in the wind, but their trumpets were still in their cases.
Now of my threescore years and ten,
Thirty will not come again...
The crocuses were already out. I prefer the daffodil to the crocus. The crocus is "le cadet," the youngest child. It speaks out of turn. It runs and runs and gets there first, and smiles back at you, but quickly realizes that it has to wait for you, it has wasted its breath. It is beautiful, radiant, and loud, at the expense of its siblings.
The daffodil is "l'aîné," the oldest child. It was once brash, but it has learned to hold its tongue. It reveals itself slowly, but ultimately takes over the landscape. This allows it to see itself, to revel in its own image. (The genus of the daffodil is Narcissus. It sprung up in his place by the spring.)
I remember spring in the Valley of the Daffodils along the St. Mary's River in Historic St. Mary's City. It was as if someone had backed up a dump truck full of liquid daffodil and emptied it into the ravine.
The daffodil is poisonous. It is the flower of death announcing the season of new life. Do not taunt Happy Fun Daffodil.
The cafés had their tables out on the street today for the first time. I sat outside. It was cold. It's only 2 weeks from February. It's only 2 weeks till April. April in Paris. I'd never known the charm of.
Tomorrow is the Ides of March. Beware!
Where was I one year ago today? I was walking around Cylburn Arboretum in Baltimore, knowing spring was one week away and just millimeters below the ground. The daffodils were high enough to waggle in the wind, but their trumpets were still in their cases.
Now of my threescore years and ten,
Thirty will not come again...
The crocuses were already out. I prefer the daffodil to the crocus. The crocus is "le cadet," the youngest child. It speaks out of turn. It runs and runs and gets there first, and smiles back at you, but quickly realizes that it has to wait for you, it has wasted its breath. It is beautiful, radiant, and loud, at the expense of its siblings.
The daffodil is "l'aîné," the oldest child. It was once brash, but it has learned to hold its tongue. It reveals itself slowly, but ultimately takes over the landscape. This allows it to see itself, to revel in its own image. (The genus of the daffodil is Narcissus. It sprung up in his place by the spring.)
I remember spring in the Valley of the Daffodils along the St. Mary's River in Historic St. Mary's City. It was as if someone had backed up a dump truck full of liquid daffodil and emptied it into the ravine.
The daffodil is poisonous. It is the flower of death announcing the season of new life. Do not taunt Happy Fun Daffodil.
posted by disappearingink at 12:52 AM
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