spring is the laughing girl with graceful ankles who brushes by —

a light breeze bringing news of blossoms opening

.

— Geraldine Toh

i.

I remember that season

of tentative beginnings:

new leaves rustling,

drip-drop of ice.

And the spring’s face

still pale from the cold,

wrapped warm in coat and jacket.

We kept each other company then,

by flickers of warmth and frost:

the earth’s thermostat,

repairing itself.

But when she left —

no word, no letter.

And now I stand alone

in the vacant heat of summer,

gazing out over forgotten grass.

Hearing no sound

but the weeping of gibbons.

ii.

Stone and wood

are awake again.

They’re back at their game of go —

each trying endlessly to outwit the other,

using the earth as their board.

They’ve drawn an audience, as always:

birds have flown up, insects glanced in.

The animals

have all scrambled out of bed

just to watch them.

The tap of each seed, each stone

fills the listening air.

No one hears the spring

typing a letter goodbye,

placing it on the table

and leaving unnoticed.

iii.

When full-bellied summer came

to supplant the sweet spring,

she left in silence, like a recluse,

pulling the door closed behind her.

Before I could protest —

before anyone could even notice —

she’d packed her things and tied up her hair,

fingers soft in the moonlight.

And then she turned

and walked out into the brittle air of morning,

leaving behind

only sleeves drenched in dew,

and flowers

strewn about my feet

like a dropped handkerchief.

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