Love letter to spring: are we born?
dear spring How long this winter has been for me, with its permanent strangeness and its masked faces. A year ago we had to witness your explosion from the balconies ; a distant spring, like a train without passengers and without stops. See it, but don't touch it. Smell, but don't eat. love but not kiss.
But today, now, at this moment, you tell me to follow me. You tell me: feel. You tell me: green. You tell me: wheat. You tell me: hyacinths and you tell me strawberries. You tell me: the poppies they are growing wild by the roadside. Are you going to miss them? Because poppies are the delicate burst of the moment and you are there when they happen or you simply missed them. No one takes a poppy home, they cannot be confined.
Are you really going to miss the fleeting and exuberant spectacle of almond blossoms? So ephemeral, so brave and so daring that they sprout in February, risking the frost.
Those almond trees with which the Caliph of Córdoba cultivated the garden of his palace so that his northern concubine would not miss the snows, according to the legend of medina azahara.
It's strawberry season
Are you going to miss all that beauty that is born, both on March 20 and April 15, when grass sprouts between the cobblestones taking advantage of a crack, when the gray that turns primrose and the wild defies the concrete?
dear spring, how I have missed your warm morning sun, your days that stretch away the night . Your born at all hours here and there . Your equinox of witches and magic. Your picnics by the river, where the children squirm like goats and we drink vermouth with adolescent laxity on the grass. Without fear. With laughter, poetry and lightness , as if we were the protagonists of a Rohmer film, where everything intellectual is also erotic, and everything of the skin is also word.
'Conte de printemps', by Eric Rohmer
I once fell in love with a man who told me that he didn't know anything about poetry, but that he read Antonio Machado because he had written poems that seemed eternal: “ Spring has come and no one knows how it has been ”. Machado wrote that and it stuck with us in the common language, like a proverb. He also wrote: “ I talk to the man who always goes with me. Because whoever speaks alone, he hopes to speak with God one day”. And it is that that man I loved did not know about poetry but it was poetry . So we often walk together through the city gardens, the nineteenth-century ones and the cement ones, also in spring.
because this is also the station of the walk, of wandering aimlessly, through the streets, the meadows or the seashore . It's time to go out and buy a pencil, like Virginia Woolf , crossing all of London; or choosing flowers for a party, like the mrs dalloway on a bright June day and discover as you walk through the revolving door of that temple called mulberry : “larkspur, sweet peas, bouquets of lilacs and carnations, roses and fleurs-de-lys”. Because spring is also literature. And music. spring is Vivaldi and Mozart and Dubussy . And also Vetusta Morla, and Sufjan Stevens and The Smiths.
Mrs Dalloway
Tomorrow you will wander and during the walk the unforeseeable will happen: it will rain, or you will get unbearably hot and you will have to tie your jacket around your waist . Because spring is too a time of crazy and crazy yes The time of violent gusts and torrential rains; braces today and umbrella tomorrow; don't trust, because sometimes spring promises things that it can't fulfill.
After all, spring is never an end season, only a departure. The origin of all origins . The start of all those cycles that don't need us. The precious moment of being reborn… a little. Are we born?