in Just spring

As the world outside resumes for a short time its slumber, like a lazy riser snoozing on the alarm clock, I think about Spring. Spring is so close I can see it over the horizon, sailing on the ever brighter crimson blush of winter sunsets.

And I am excited about this Sunday, when I will join up with a couple of chrome-hound buddies to finally launch my first true all-day assault since last November, upon a lucky creek somewhere. If I close my eyes and concentrate, even as I type this, I can feel the current around me and the soft fins of timorous steelhead brushing at my ankles and my calves; I am standing knee deep in them, in enormous "Chromocupia." Or maybe that's just cabin fever + caffeine (I just polished off a tripple espresso)? Mike says I'm passionate about steelhead, and I guess I am that, too - and such long abstinence, if it does not kill passion will transform it into wanton, reckless zeal.

But now I realise what it is that has been humming in my head these last couple of weeks. Not just the prescience of March chromers and steely April droppies, or the pulsing quickening of Spring, but a poem. By e.e. cummings, my favourite poet. His poem went so far as to infiltrate my last entry, and it is the name of this one. If you did in fact read my last entry; if you are one of those poor souls whose lives are so barren that they had nothing better to do; I extend you just a little less sympathy than I do to myself (who actually wrote the darned thing): and I wonder if you detected the bits of poetry that slipped into the otherwise monotonous blabla.

In any case, if all goes well and the Chrome Gods smile upon us, I shall update this space again quite soon. In the meantime, I leave it to cummings and his bright, beautiful poem. I hope you enjoy it!

in Just- spring

in Just-
spring      when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles      far      and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old balloonman whistles
far      and      wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's
spring
and
   the

     goat-footed

balloonMan      whistles
far
and
wee

e.e. cummings