PRACTICE
Write about the spring.
Write for fifteen minutes, and when you're finished, post your practice in the comments section.
And if you post, be sure to comment on a few others.
Photo by Neal Fowler
Here's mine:
I nearly missed it. Out of the country most of March, I missed the white blooms on the Bradford pears and the blooming of the wisteria. I also missed the first tiny buds of leaves, like magic tricks appearing at the ends of those skeleton fingers.
But this morning I rolled down my window and said, “It smells good,” and Talia said, “Like wisteria and dogwood,” and I noticed the white flowers on that dwarfed, gnotty, Japanese looking tree and I said, “And dew.”
It smells like spring. Like the world opening up again. Everything is warm and moist and blushing color.
Today we will drive through the Appalachian spring. It will follow us like gnarled hermits that have grown to life again. We will stop the car and lay in meadows full of fresh lilac. When we get back in, the car will be yellow with pollen. My wife is the spring and I am the sun. Her hair is the color of dogwood blossoms and her skin the color of its bark.
I nearly missed this spring but I've found it. I open my windows to greet it. I open my eyes to see it bursting from the skeleton fingers of tulip poplars and white oaks. I open my lungs to breathe in the dew, wisteria, dogwood air. I am filled with spring. I am the sun. I am the sun.
New colors vividly surround.
The sun gently warms the skin.
The senses are teased with fresh sights and sounds.
The landscape is brightened as a rainbow of movement gives applause.
The water flows.
The birds soar above.
The crickets chirp.
Life is renewed.
I really like the line “The landscape is brightened as a rainbow of movement gives applause.” I picture tulips and irises clapping their petals and whistling encouragement to the lilac bushes.
Thanks, that was the part I had to think about..haha. I think that was what took most of the 15 minutes 🙂
I agree with Missaralee. It seems like you let yourself open up a little on that one. It was good.
Thanks Joe. I sincerely appreciate that.
That line about the rainbow of movement is exceptional Jim, and I like the way it gets longer line by line and then shorter, kind of like day length.
Thanks so much Marianne! I really appreciate it!
“a rainbow of movement” – – nice!!
Thanks Tara, I really appreciate the kind words!
Season 1 of 4
there are four seasons
spring is just one of them
spring is like fall
moderate in nature but
fall follows summer while
spring follows winter so
spring is for the young and
fall is for the rest of us
who need the sadness
Larry this is an interesting approach. How is spring like fall? (Perhaps part of it is where you live.) Thanks!
Actually, spring is not like fall, except in being less extreme and more tolerable than summer or winter. The difference is the sadness.
I understand that. It seems like even though the days can be the same length and the temperatures moderate (here in VA at least) the lengthening days seems bright and happy and the shortening days are sad and make me tired. It is all part of our old brain stems I guess. I always seem to think about my youth in the spring and my old age in the fall.
mmm… I like that.
The turn of the wheel by the hand of time
Tiny notches clicking forward
The circle of life, forever renewing, birth and death and the brilliance in between
Like spring I burst forth
A new season in my life with fertile thoughts
Unfurling possibilities like fresh new leaves
Out of the snow, like a crocus peeking, I reach with my face to the shining sun
I’ve always liked the metaphor of the wheel to signify the changeability of life. You’ve really captured the energy and freshness of spring: bursting, unfurling, renewing.
You say I’m cold and it’s true.
My heart lies sleeping beneath the dirt, swaddled in a blanket of winter’s snow.
Do not try to hasten the spring. A snap thaw would flood us both and leave the ground ruined and rutted, unfit for the tender shoots of my heart.
All things have a season and spring must come gradually, slowly and patiently.
The cheerful song of birds must fill the cool air before the crocuses will shoot up and raise their silky flags to greet the rebirth of life.
Until then, I sleep underground, wating for warmer weather, storing my reserves jealously, holding tight to the hope of spring and new vigour. When the rains have washed away the dirt and ice of winter, joy will return, and openness.
There is hope in the thaw and a warning too. Wait for spring and roll in the soft grass of summer, but watch for the autumn.
Prepare your farewells against the coming frost. As sure as winter turns to spring, the long days of summer will fade into night and my heart will once again rest beneath the dirt and that gentle blanket of snow.
Why do you grasp at the fading rays of summer’s sun? You cannot stop the sun from setting. Do not weep or mourn the loss of warmth from my heart.
Is it not my singular charm to be like the first flush of spring? The spectacle of my bloom cannot last. Would you wish me to be a woody shrub without any show or splendor just so you can stay by my side? I cannot be evergreen, that is for someone else.
I am a spring flower. Would you change my nature? Would you hate the very ephemerality that is the essence of my heart?
I store away my energies for a long life of brief blooms. It takes a patient gardener to love me. One who will soak up all my beauty and enjoy every day of my short visit and then wish me well with a tender kiss and a promise to meet again.
I’m in the yard gardening … carefully!
I’ve moved on to reading your blog … I like it.
thanks …
I really enjoyed reading your post. There was a gentle lilt to it. It was rhythmic and picturesque. I liked how you wrote from the perspective of a spring flower. I found myself trying to figure out who you were as I read. It was almost a little anticlimactic when you finally revealed yourself, I would have perhaps enjoyed a less subtle reveal, but this was really good!
Thank you! I appreciate the feedback; it hadn’t occured to me that I was holding back on the identity of my voice. I’ll try to rework it 🙂
“All things have a season and spring must come gradually, slowly and patiently.
The cheerful song of birds must fill the cool air before, like the crocuses, I will shoot up and raise my silky flags to greet the rebirth of life.”
Love it!
I don’t think you need to rework it much. I thought it was a person who wasn’t quite ready to be in love and at the same time knew that love would end. That the person is a flower is a nice analogy. I think there are loves that are like a woody shrub that is not ever really romantic but is steady, resolute, and of course Evergreen is a well known analogy for a self-rejuventaing love made famous by the song by Barbara Striesland. I think you could not even say that it is a flower.
I’m really glad you saw that it was a person not ready to be in love: you’ve read my mind!
You have captured spring. And love. And life.
Thank you! I’m so glad the imagery resonated with you.
I may never have to go outside again. I’ll just reread your beautiful piece.
I’m so glad you enjoyed it, but I do hope you go outside again!
The car stopped.
I guess you could say I’m not from a good background. I had a troubling feeling of homesickness. Strangely, I felt as if I wanted someone to hug me and tell me everything was going to be all right. My face seemed to burn a little and my eyes began to sting. I think it was the huge cry I was avoiding since that day on the porch. I. Must. Suppress. Feelings. My mind moved off to the next thing …
“Miss Susan, where are we?”
“This is your new home.”
“My new home?”
I much preferred the children’s home. I liked it. There were others to play with and I had plenty to eat. They gave me new clothes and I went to a new school. There were older boys I had to avoid but still it was much better than my other neighborhood.
“Give it a chance will you”
I did not want to admit that I missed my mom or my dad or my brother or my sister. I wanted to be left alone but everything was moving so fast and now this.
“Listen Bobby, think about it. This could be a new start for you, it’s a nice family in a great neighborhood.”
“Take me back Susan. I don’t like it here.”
Loudly two kids appeared, bouncing down the porch, a boy and a girl – around my age – full of smiles, laughing and calling out my name, which seemed odd to me – how could they know my name? Behind them making their appearance with a little less enthusiasm but no less friendly were the parents.
The four of them convinced me into the house for the ‘grand tour’. I hated it when people were so bubbly and convincing. My head began to ache. Where was Susan? I had to get out of here. But, I knew I would have to give this a chance.
I like how you’ve taken the idea of new beginnings that spring embodies and instead of talking about snow and flowers you tell us about a boy who is reluctant to let go of the comfortable familiarity of his winter reality and accept a new life.
Thank-you!
What a poignant story. I truly felt the angst of this season change for little Bobby. I loved how you ended it. There was a glimpse of a promise of spring in the two kids bouncing down the stairs, yet an understandable skepticsm from Bobby who would rather live in a familiar season of winter than to endure a forced make-believe spring. Great job!
Thanks Tom!
Robert, I’m really sad your fifteen minutes was up because I want to read more.
Katie
Thanks Katie, such a nice thing to say.
I grew up in Thailand, so I resonate more with a tropical kind of spring. Summer is when the climate changes from hot season to rainy season. I love the rain.
Before the rain comes, the heat grows steadily humid. The air absorbs the sweat of the people like an invisible sponge and sits stagnant for weeks. The people live an impatient cycle of showering, sweating, showering, and sweating. The tension builds. Then a slow silent moment passes as the sky holds its breath. Release. The rain sighs as it touches the earth and the earth sighs with it. Heat and humidity are siphoned silently away and forgotten. The steady sound is both soft and deafening, isolating each house in a sacred place of renewal. The intimate smell of rain fills every mind and the people remain reverently silent. It rains for hours, gently soaking the cracked earth with healing. Eventually it slows to a few drips dropping off the houses and the trees and the clouds. The colors are different now, washed and brightened by the rain. Slowly, the people start to move again and go about their lives. But they are different now, washed and brightened by the rain.
I love how you build the tension of the hot, humid season before the rain comes. I’ve been to Cambodia and have sensed that same tension of sweat and humidity and the relief of a nightly shower. And I was also there when the rain came down so hard it flooded the streets to knee high levels, yet everyone was so relieved to be free from the humidity at least for a moment. Your writing brought me back to that experience. Thanks!
I love the rain, too. Where I live, we don’t get rainfalls that last very long, cutting us off from everything around us. I long for it. Thank you for reminding me of the peaceful isolation that rain brings when it does come and stay a while.
I think that must be really beautiful to see, like rain in the desert. I love where I live but wish I could see something like that. I’m glad to at least hear about it. Thanks
Thank you all for your kind comments. I tried to capture the moment and I’m glad to see from your reactions that I did. Thanks for the encouragement!
Waking up Spring
Morning sun beams through our window landing softly on her face,
Spring rolls over with a moan and squints before closing her eyes again.
Her head rests on my shoulder while her hand explores me,
Her gentle breath begins to thaw winter hardness.
Birds serenade from neighboring branches tapping on our glass.
“What a crazy storm last night,” she whispers.
I say nothing, frozen still, pretending to sleep.
Winter was cruel, but now seems to be surrendering to her warmth.
Spring warms the aches and pains of a long winter’s night,
Her light reveals little damage from last night’s storm,
A deep sigh of relief gives way to heavy breathing,
My toes curl awake as I embrace Spring.
She serves me brunch on the front porch.
If you don’t mind my saying so, that is pretty erotic. I guess spring is, after all.
If it was good enough for Solomon… 🙂
It made me think of my husband… he’s out of town, alas.
They read some of that Solomon song at my nieces wedding. It made me blush. Very frisky!
I love this Tom … very sensual. I like the visual it gives …
Oh that’s so romantic Tom. Very beautiful. I like the formatting. It makes it almost like a poem and your words seem simple and well chosen.
so great. loved “spring rolls over with a moan and squints before closing her eyes again.” such an amazing visual.
“Morning sun beams through our window landing softly on her face,”
love the visual tone setter from the start.
I love the last line.
Free writing:
A coiled piece of wire, compressed and then released, sending out its energy, launching something, somewhere.
It could be the verb, to spring–leaping forth, pouncing, like a hunter springing upon its prey. Cats spring. Spiders do, too.
I like the action that it implies, an action that comes about by sudden, unrestrained emotion. Passionate. Impulsive. Act now, think later, but not with any negative connotation implied. When I think of springing, I think of action that, though impulsive, is warranted. Springing results from a split-second decision, the decision that requires immediate action.
A spring is the upwelling of water from an underground source. I imagine a water nymph guarding this source, ensuring its purity. A spring where a maiden goes to bathe, to meet her friends and indulge in a leisurely swim, a chance to let down her guard and restraint, where she is free from having to defend her virtue. Maybe the water nymphs help to make it a safe place for these women, the young and the old.
Oh wow. Your description of a coiled spring and of hunters is so tactile and vivid. The tension is strongly contrasted against the softness that a spring of water implies. Who knew that spring could embody such contradicting forces: the energy of impulsiveness and the sweetness of a pure and unguarded moment.
Than you Missaralee and Marianne. I hadn’t thought of how the images might compare to each other, but I actually like the contradiction now that I am aware of it.
Marianne, it is a fantasy of mine to find a secret spring. Kind of like a secret garden.
Send me an invitation (in code of course with invisible ink) when you find it.
That’s lovely as usual Casey. I must need to go outside. Everything I read today is making me wistful. I would love to be at the spring guarded by the water nymphs. Thanks
I love this description. It is full of energy, and at the same time, it suggests a placid, serene setting.
What glorious description of some forms of spring. I was there the entire piece.
I particularly love the feeling of strength and tension I felt in my shoulders as I read before a release. Lovely contrast.
“skeleton fingers,” yes; reminds me that all this new life blossoms from old life that is past, and now I am inspired. Yes, Joe, I’m inspired now, thanks to you, to do my fifteen minutes on spring. What a glorious prompt!
Thank you, Carey. I’m so glad to hear that 🙂
That’s beautiful Joe. It sounds like Virginia except you did’t mention redbuds.
Shoot, and I don’t even know what redbuds are. Actually, I didn’t know what half the trees and plants I mentioned in this were until I moved to the south. We have dry tough plants in California and so many kinds it’s too hard to learn their names. The ones here are bigger and less diverse. I like seeing them again and again like old friends.
Green shoots spring forth from a bed of dead leaves! Dare I neglect those myriad miracles to speak of a great piece of music–Aaron Copland’s “Appalachian Spring.”
But I never fail to think of the great piece, considered by many weedhoppers, young and old, to be the greatest of American orchestral works, this time of year. Especially since my online muse mentioned the actual phrase, “Appalachian Spring,” and the whole torrent of green sound and awakening life comes hopping at me through melodic crescendoes of the bunting birds as they tweet forth with songs of joy or songs of instinct or songs of celebration, while the wysteria winde forth their purple mystery somewhere down in Georgia and it must be a rainy night in Georgia, and dogwoods outside the door prepare inwardly to send forth their pinioned message of twisted hope to the world.
A carefully-orchestrated cacophony of woodwinds and tympani, Appalachian Spring, sounds forth in memory, while somewhere by the pond the peeper frogs tweet their ageless plaintive song. A million years vibrate in every peep.
Nearby old bullfrog moans forth his basso continuo gloats; the lotus pop out from their bunting of floats.
“Green sound.” yes, you’re right. Sound really can be green.
“A million years vibrate in every peep.” Yes. I love it.
Here’s my attempt. A spring from a long time ago.
The rain just kept falling. Stinging rain. Warm straight lines of water streaking the landscape. I had never seen rain like this before. It began slowly with a few scattered heavy drops. Then suddenly it came on with a force that put the landscape out of focus, as if I had taken off my glasses. Each drop was almost a small puddle by itself. Slapping against my steel helmet, it quickly become a loud drumbeat with a wild rhythm. The rain made tree limbs sag, it filled ditches and hung in the air like a shroud. It rusted metal and softened wood, and it made life miserable.
The sound was deafening.
I was new here, and everything looked strange. My bunker partner, Joel, sat on a stack of wet sandbags peering out to a mountainside that had become a green wall layered in streaks of grey-white haze. Clouds too heavy to rise above the peaks brushed across tree tops.
“They’ll hide inside the mist,” Joel said. “Rain is good at night, it keeps everybody hunkered down. But during the day it provides cover.” I watched his experienced eyes scan the unseeable demons that would soon come for us.
“How long do the rains last?” I asked. I looked up into the side of the blurry mountain but didn’t yet know what to look for. But I would, soon enough.
“Another month would be good,” he said.
“A whole month?” I asked. “I thought this wasn’t a good thing.”
“I leave in a month,” Joel said. “This weather will keep the action down. They can’t see us either.”
“I wish I was going home in a month,” I said thoughtfully.
“Just think spring,” Joel said wistfully. “Just think about the flowers blooming, the trees budding out until it looks like a green mist is hovering in the trees. Think about life renewing. Just think about spring. It never fails to arrive.”
Angelo That’s great. I like how with your writing you combine believable dialogue and very accessible characters with great descriptions. I love the “green wall” of rain and the blindness like having his glasses taken off that it caused.
If you’ve never been in monsoon rains you should try it. It’s like swimming without the pool.
so vivid. love it.
Thank you.
Angelo … I love your writing, so alive and full of wonder. I read this and feel the despair, the fear, and the hope in these men. It gives me the idea that these conversations took place in similiar fashion across the ages.
That conversation took place during my first spring in Vietnam. I was there from one spring to the next.
I love the last thing Joel says about life renewing and how spring never fails to arrive.
Katie
We spread our blanket out
the ground still hard, resistant to the early spring,
remembering the weight of all that snow upon its back.
Our bodies point out in different directions,
our heads touching at the crowns.
“Listen”, I whisper.
“what should we hear?” Asks the boy already growing man under the marvel t-shirt.
“Only what the wind wants you to hear” Is my soft reply.
Sister has remained silent and still, which for her is quite a feat.
Her passion always propels her forward – but for now she sits expectant, eyes darting across the trees.
I know she could hear it. The stories swirling above her. Shifting through the leaves, impatient to be shared. And as he eased his body into the moment even he, perched on the cusp of leaving nymph- hood could feel it too.
…
Out spilled the stories told by the gentle breeze, translated in the way that only half-fairies can.
And, oh, this mama heart hurt – for the growing, stretching wide and deep to hold this moment in.
For I knew as fast as that wind could carry a song, the stanzas of this life kept their metered pace, never to repeat.
The way his jaw line cast a sharp shadow upon the speckled birthmarks on his neck.
Or the way her cheap, glittered hairclip dazzled in the sun like a precious jewel; holding back the baby-fine strands of hair growing long down the tumble of shaping shoulders.
I know I can’t keep the memory of each story they shared,
for I just bore witness to the conversation between two elements, meeting on this earthly stage.
But I will hold forever their precious hearts flung open wide to the sky above them.
My spirit daughter telling me that not only could she hear the wind, but that she could smell it too.
I drew in a deep, life-sustaining breath. Laundry detergent, heads warmed by the afternoon sun, and air – the fresh kind- sweet yet a touch bitter, filled my lungs.
The smell of life. Love lived simply. Dressed us as regally as the lily of the field.
“Do other mamas do this with their kids, too?” He asked after some time past.
“I hope so, baby.” My whisper picked up and swept away…
I hope you have printed that out and kept it. Children grow up so quickly and you forget things but then if you wrote about it, you will pick it up and go right back to the springtime on the ground listening to the stories.
Spring brings out the poet in me. My impressions of spring as it briefly appears in our part of the World has been penned by me in 3 Haiku(s) in my blog http://hemuspot.blogspot.com
Not my best practice. But that’s the beauty of practice: posting the good and the not so good. It’s probably because I just blogged about spring last week, so I felt like everything has already been said. – Katie
I love spring. It’s a beautiful glimpse of hope following a long, harsh winter. The first warm days, the first flower buds are the promise of something new, something flourishing to come.
Colors are vibrant, refreshing. They pop out following the seemingly-eternal dark grays of winter. When the white turns to green, frowns turn to smiles. Suddenly everything is better.
Rain drops fall, washing away the yellow-green hue of pollen. Rain drops fall, binging off the metal roof. Rain drops fall, there will be no ice tomorrow. Rain drops fall, rushing down the chain-drain as I sleep.
It’s spring.
Hope has come. Hope is easy to find. Hope appears with the leaves, the blades of grass, the rain drops pelting my car. Hope comes in the form of beautiful evening walks around town, the first hints of a Chaco-tan, and kapris. Hope is playing tennis outside again; hope is sniffling when the pollen is too much.
Hope is a beautiful thing lost so easily when the world is covered in a blanket of white and a layer of ice.
Spring means summer’s coming. It means the end of the school year is near, vacation just around the corner. Spring means soon days will be spent running through the sprinkler and diving into the pool. It will mean lemonade stands run by swim-suit-clad children.
But today is spring. Girl Scout cookies, hamburgers on the grille, and cucumber salads on the deck in sweatshirts because it’s not quite warm enough.
Spring is when we wait with great anticipation for days to come. Spring is foreshadowing.
I just went with a stream of consciousness type of post. No story … just random thought.
New life. New beginnings. Fresh. Green. Alive. Buds popping from seemingly dead branches. Bird song filling the air. Longer days. Shorter nights. Driving to work in the dark … coming home in daylight. Cooking dinner with light streaming in the kitchen window. No more warm air blowing from the heating vents. Turning on the air conditioning. Cold air blowing fresh from those same vents. Rain falling soft on the new mown grass. The smell of green. Fluffy, brown, baby bunnies with white cotton-ball tails. Fuzzy yellow chicks. Downy ducklings in staggered lines waddling after mama into the still chilly lake. Sunshine and reflected clouds on the water. Blue and white on silver … rimmed with green and brown. Feet, trapped too long in winter shoes, running bare across cool grass and hot pavement. Pale, white, arms and legs coming out from under their covers to greet the sun. Colorful flowers waking from their long sleep, breaking through the cool earth and blanket of musty leaves, lifting their smiling faces to the warm Spring sunshine. Dogs bark. Children laugh. Lawn mowers roar. An ice cream truck rolls by adding it’s tinkling notes to the magical music of Spring. Early morning frost melts away quickly in the warmth of the morning sun. The noon sunshine falls warm on those who venture outside to revel in it’s glory. The evening sun fades from the horizon in a blaze of red and orange … promising that tomorrow will be another wonderful Spring day!
My wife is the spring and I am the sun. Her hair is the color of dogwood blossoms and her skin the color of its bark. – My favorite part. Nice story Joe 🙂
Thank you JB. 🙂