Because the light says so

You Must Believe in Spring
Jan Zwicky

Because it is the garden.  What is left to us.
Because silence is not silence without sound
Because you have let the cat out, and then in, and then out,
           and then in, and then out, and then in, and then
           out, and then in, and then out, and then in,
           enough.
Because otherwise their precision at the blue line would
           mean nothing.
Because otherwise death would mean nothing.
Because the light says so,
Because a human being can gladly eat only so much cabbage.
Because the pockets of your overcoat need mending.
Because it's easy not to.
Because your sweaters smell.
Because Gregory of Nazianzen said geometry has no place in
           mourning, by which he meant despair presumes too
           much.
Because it ain't over 'til it's over. - Hank Aaron, Jackie
           Robinson. Satchel Paige.
Because Kant was wrong, and Socrates, Descartes and all the 
           rest.  Because it is the body thinking and Newt 
           Gingrich would like you not to.
Because I love you.  Or you love someone.  Because someone
           is loved.
Because under the sun, everything is new.
Because the wet snow in the tress is clotted light.
Because in 1941 it took six cords of wood to get through a
           winter in one room at Harvard and two-thirds
           of Main used to be open country as a result.
Because sleeping is not death.
Because although an asshole was practising his Elvis Presley
           imitation, full voice, Sunday morning, April 23rd
           at Spectacle Lake Provincial Park, the winter wren
           simply moved 200 yards down the trail.
Because the wren's voice is moss in sunlight, because it is
           a stream in sunlight over stones.
Because Beethoven titled the sonata.
I mean: would Bill Evans and Frank Morgan lie to you?
Because even sorrow has a source.
For, though it cannot fly, the heart is an excellent clamberer.


I know this post is a little out of season since (fingers-crossed) summer seems to be underway in this part of the world. However, the lilac bush at my parents' house never blooms when it ought to. All of the other lilac bushes are blooming like mad, perfuming the air and displaying their frothy purple blooms, but not this one. It's still just barely budding. And it will patiently wait until the other bushes have faded. Only then will it burst forth in a jubilant celebration of a season that is long gone. There is something about this that delights me.

This poem by Jan Zwicky also delights me. This idea that the light demands a belief in spring resonates with me. Light is such an integral part of how I think of the seasons. It, more than the often wacky weather, dictates when the season has begun to change.