A script of trees before the hill Spells cold, with laden serifs; all the walls Are battlemented still; But winter spring is winnowing the air Of chill, and crawls Wet-sparkling on the gutters; Everywhere Walls wince, and there’s the steal of waters.
As the first hopeful signs of spring begin to appear amid winter’s vestiges, with them emerge cautionary words to measure our excitement, as though too much enthusiasm could startle spring and send it scampering back into its burrow.In this in-between season, there is a beautiful illustration of the necessity of vulnerability in love. Richard Wilbur (1921–2017) wrote a poem called “Winter Spring,” which, is as elusive in print as spring itself seems to be in his verses.
