By Joshua Schneyer
April is the cruellest month…
– T.S. Eliot
At least, that’s what they keep telling us
since T.S. Eliot laid it down
more than a hundred years ago. I confess,
I like spring, its warmth,
its long days, its zephyrs,
its green leaves first appearing
on winter’s bones, the small shoots
shouldering their way
through soil rich with decay.
I like to walk in it, to feel its air
against my skin, see a squirrel
dart left and right, then stop and rise up
on its haunches as if about
to launch into an aria
about the sadness of winter,
the return of spring.
Robin, wren, and chickadee sing
their songs of gratitude
at having weathered yet another
season of privation, while the swallow,
oriole, and warbler fly in from Florida
to join the chorus. If I wore a hat,
I would tip it. If I could fly
or scrabble up a tree, I’d join them
there among the leaves bright green,
climb out to the furthest point
where a wren would perch on my hatless head,
a squirrel sit on my shoulder, and together
we’d watch the sun rise to its zenith
then slowly set. We’d sing it on its way
and talk about this and that, but mostly
about how good it is to be alive,
even when so many that we loved
are not, how spring is one
beginning of many beginnings,
which are also endings, and beginnings
of endings, which, I admit,
is fairly philosophical for a wren
and squirrel in a tree,
but mostly we agreed that spring
is the bees’ knees,
T.S. Eliot notwithstanding.
Josh Schneyer quit high school and worked as a cabinet maker, chef, opera singer, soldier, boxer, teacher, and currently makes his living as a boxing coach. He has a BA in literature and earned his MA in creative writing from Boston University. When he isn’t coaching, he’s reading or writing.
Artwork by Rebecca Balk