On the green bench there is slush before, a green bench with a woman on it, another woman in yoga on the grass. By the green of it , it is spring.
This morning it was a Hopkins spring where a thrush sang it’s spring thing. Our own spring came with mango nipples on the neighbor tree and lots of neem flowers came down as snowfall.
Hopkins brought out a sinful garden of old spring , expecting a Son to come down to save lambs from perdition. He was a priest-poet who lapsed into his Episcopalian thoughts towards the last stanza of a spring poem. Hopkins called trees timber, just the way all things end up at the end of spring.
His weeds would spring out of the lying wheel . Hopefully the weeds are celebrating their own spring and are not the ones to take us to high places.