Snow...unceasing snow

All Heaven and Earth
Flowered white obliterate...
Snow...unceasing snow
-- Matsuo Bashō

We’re due for another ice/snow storm today. Just two to four inches is expected but that’s on top of the messy, icy mass that’s on the ground already. I’m aching for spring. The Vernal Equinox isn’t until March 20th which feels like, this morning anyway, a zillion light years away.

 It’s not.

In order to soothe my frozen slush and flake infused body, I’m bringing songs and poems of that sweetest season, that time of rebirth, to mind.


Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it's all right

Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter
Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here

Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it's all right
-- George Harrison, Here Comes the Sun
 
I can see clearly now, the rain is gone,
I can see all obstacles in my way
Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind
It’s gonna be a bright (bright), bright (bright)
Sun-Shiny day. 

I think I can make it now, the pain is gone
All of the bad feelings have disappeared
Here is the rainbow I’ve been prayin?for
It’s gonna be a bright (bright), bright (bright)
Sun-Shiny day.
-- Johnny Nash, I Can See Clearly Now

Morning has broken, like the first morning.
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning,
Praise for them springing fresh from the Word.
-- Cat Stevens, Morning Has Broken

Bluebird
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.
-- Charels Bukowski (the rest of the poem at the link)

Birds singing 

in the dark 

—Rainy dawn.

One flower

on the cliffside

Nodding at the canyon
-- Jack Kerouac

April's air stirs in
Willow-leaves...a butterfly
Floats and balances

Spring rain
leaking through the roof
dripping from the wasps’ nest

Spring air —
woven moon
and plum scent

Spring:
A hill without a name
Veiled in morning mist.

-- Matsuo Bashō

and here/hear, some Vivaldi. Listen for me, bitte.

Grazie. I’ll make it to tulip time. We all will.