At my current church, there is an adorable old man named George. There's something about old-man Georges that get to me. (It's probably not hard for you all to figure it out.)
This George is even older than my Grampie. And on top of being a centarian, he is also a poet. In fact, when I initially expressed interest in his poetry, he brought me three of his four volumes the following week (he couldn't find any copies of Volume 1).
A few weeks ago, during coffee hour (after the early service, 8 or 10 of us sit around and eat a breakfast of cookies and coffee), we got to discussing the weather, and this slow movement towards spring.
One of my friends/colleagues there is a Maritimer, and she is particularly fond of the winter season. I am not so inclined. She was lamenting the ugliness of this liminal season before spring, and the inevitability of wet feet and dirty half-snow everywhere.
"I look forward to the slush!" George piped up. And we all laughed.
"That sounds like the start of a poem!" I said, and before long we were all urging him to write an Ode to Spring.
The following week, we eagerly asked if he had written our springtime poem. He laughed us off, and I thought, "Better not push too hard."
So yesterday, I said nothing, and we were mid-way through our coffees and cookies when George pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. The much-demanded poem, he told us, is entitled "You Asked Me."
It is my favourite poem about spring, of all times, ever. The first line especially is a killer. I wish you all could see him reading it, slouched into the couch, cookie crumbs on his suit jacket, and a grin on his face.
You Asked Me
Glory be to spring for ambient slush
As sullen winter humiliates in mush.
Delighted by water rushing down the drain,
We even welcome spring's too frequent rain.