This time of year feels like the holidays.
Every bloom and warm breeze is a gift.
But where time between Christmas and New Year’s feels month-long, spring deals in brevity.
My husband sent me this photo earlier in the month, and when I went to view the trees myself, all the flowers were gone.
Every. Single. One.
Only 10 days had passed. But, apparently, so had a literal lifetime.
This time of year is like that. An arrival one minute followed by a departure the next.
Everything in a constant state of flux.
Be urgent about what matters. Who’s to say time is on our side?
With care,
-R
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Must I grieve in the spring? The gentle air has just returned and the oak’s fluff whisper in the breeze. Fitfully the wind carries winter’s last spell but oh when it is gracious lovers emerge craving the spotlight of the moon. Must I grieve in the spring? When the sun’s comfort finally matches its yellow welcoming hatchlings to a new day. Where rain falls as torrent and mist a beckoning for the sprouting to unfurl. Must I grieve in the spring? Since sorrow cares nothing of the blue bird’s song. And holds no curiosity to flapping Monarch wings. Loss is a hunger with mercurial appetite unphased by beauty. So if I grieve in the spring tell grove and meadow they will be missed. My misty eyes leave tulips without worship.
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It’s National Poetry Month and I’ve been sitting with Camille’s Motherlands.
As Anaheim's Poet Laureate, she’s a literary ambassador who fosters cultural connections through her writing. This text in particular conveys the beauty and brutality of motherhood, immigration, and family legacy.
For more from her, check out our dekaaz poem collab, in pursuit of timelessness.
What’s your favorite part of the spring?
Does nature’s beauty help or hurt while grieving?
If grief had a smell, what would it be?
Are you a fan of poetry? What sparked your interest?
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