My beloved spoke, and said to me:
“Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.
For lo, the winter has past,
The rain is over and gone;
The flowers appear on the earth;
The time of singing is come,
And the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land;
The fig tree puts forth her green fruit,
And the blossoming vines spread their fragrance.
Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.”
The Song of Songs
Glorious Spring! A bouquet of flowers and a bushel of greens: violet and redbud, peppercress and creasy greens, chickweed, waterleaf, and sochane. Shoots race like asparagus toward the light: daylily, knotweed, milkweed, and bamboo.
April comes from the Latin aperire, as in apéritif, meaning “to open.” This is the month of Aphrodite, the time for rebirth, for Passover, Easter, and “spring fever,” when we too rise up renewed, open and eager to meet the world once more. We celebrate the miracle of life à la forestière, with fiddleheads, ramps, morels, and — if we’re lucky — wild turkey. It's time to eat the neighbors!
The longer I live and the more I read, the more certain I become that the real poems about spring aren’t written on paper. They are written in the back pasture and the near meadow, and they are issued in a new revised edition every April.