The Hounds Of Spring
When the hounds of spring are on winter’s traces,
The mother of months in meadow or plain
Fills the shadows and windy places
With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain —Swinburne
Today, according to English (and Persian) tradition, is the first day of spring. According to the ancient Greeks, it marks the annual return of Persephone from the underworld (where she is fated to spend much of the year, having tasted of the food of Haides–a handful of pomegranate seeds).
A time of re-birth and renewal, of growth and a promise of fecundity: you know–good stuff like that.
The sap is rising, the juices are flowing and verse should fall from your fingertips virtually unbidden…that’s the theory: if you don’t like it, I have others.
So like the reckless crocus, stick your head up out of the mulch and blossom: let’s have spring poems.