Despite a couple of cold spells, we really didn’t have much of a winter in Michigan again this year. As far as I’m concerned, winter needs snow and lots of it because otherwise, what’s the point? Without something white and clean to look at day after day, winter ends up being three depressing gray months of cold.
But then there is soup, of course. Home made. It’s how I get through.
Anyway, with spring, as with anything that comes around more or less regularly, I find myself looking forward and setting goals: “This year the garden will be more colorful” I say to myself, “and I will spend more time outside.” But looking ahead leads to looking back: “Last year at this time,” I say to myself…
So I relate to Charlotte Mary Mew, today’s poet, as she recalls a previous spring and faces a new one. If you’re feeling too good about yourself and the world, you may wish to read a little about her life here. Do NOT click there if you are prone to depression.
Lastly, before we get to the poem: Please don’t ask me to explain the punctuation, I simply can’t.
I So Liked Spring
I so liked Spring last year
Because you were here; —
The thrushes too—
Because it was these you so liked to hear—
I so liked you.
This year’s a different thing,—
I’ll not think of you.
But I’ll like the Spring because it is simply spring
As the thrushes do.