Prothalamium

Come, all you who are not satisfied
as ruler in a lone, wallpapered room
full of mute birds, and flowers that falsely bloom,
and closets choked with dreams that long ago died!

Come, let us sweep the old streets–like a bride;
sweep out dead leaves with a relentless broom;
prepare for Spring, as though he were our groom
for whose light footstep eagerly we bide.

We’ll sweep out shadows, where the rats long fed;
sweep out our shame–and in its place we’ll make
a bower for love, a splendid marriage-bed
fragrant with flowers aquiver for the Spring.
And when he comes, our murdered dreams shall wake;
and when he comes, all the mute birds shall sing. -Aaron Kramer

I am not a big poetry person, but this was at the beginning of Barbara Kingsolver’s Prodigal Summer, which I am currently reading for the first time, and the weather and the idea of Spring as the groom we are anxiously waiting for really resonated with me, so I thought I’d share it here.

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