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When this is published to the world, the vernal equinox will have passed and spring, supposedly, will be knocking sweetly against my storm windows. Instead, over the past few days the wind-chill factor has been quickly sending the temperature downward and winter is panhandling some more patience from us until it finally leaves. But I know that spring will soon be really here. The air will lose its sting and edge, soften into a gauze that hangs, like Spanish moss, from branches, phone lines, the eaves of garages. Spring will water the dry tongues of our bodies, moistening them into verbs, making them articulate. This restorative tonic of spring is what poets celebrate when they write their praises to the season, what Longfellow called the "wonder and expectation in all hearts."
But much of what we think as actual "spring" is really the end of spring, its final report, the white tail of the deer going over the fence. By the time we get around to noticing spring's beauty and fizz it's usually over, and something we had hankered for since the scolding storms of January has once again slipped by. Despite our resolve to pay attention, we get so busied making a living that spring sifts in like a fine dust until, with great surprise, we suddenly find it thick enough to write our names in and wonder where it all came from.
George Santayana held, I think, a better notion: "To be interested in the changing seasons," he said, "is...a happier state of mind than to be hopelessly in love with Spring." Prior to what we've officially termed as spring are a few "pre-seasons" of the season, and noticing these gives us more time to appreciate the yeasty conclusion we rise to in April. e.e. cummings named one "just-spring," when the world was mudluscious and puddlewonderful. I like the small season right before "just-spring," when the world is melting and the air can still carry an electric charge of sharp chill. I find this usually on my first bike ride. The scabrous snow, darkened and more salt than water, runs away along curbs and down drains. The vowels of loosened water mix with the hiss of my tires on the road, the slur of the chain over the sprockets. In the sunlight I can feel the advent of August, but in patches of shade lingers a cool vagrant who steals my sweat and makes my skin perk and dance. I like best this prickly interregnum between the harsh edge of March's ending and the opening sultry drawl of April's yawn.
There are other small seasons in spring if you think about them. It's important to notice them and not let them be swamped by the official induction ceremonies granted to March 21 and Hallmark cards. Too often we want to move quickly from what we don't like to something we think we want, and we wash over all the odd quirky bits of time and space that could give not only momentary pleasure but also a more lenient and durable fullness to our lives. There is a season, as the Preacher says, and it would be good to add as many seasons to his list as we can.
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