Spring Sunshine
A snowless winter, a barren spring and now a sky piled high with cotton balls and blank faced men in suits that pour out of the Stock Exchange in search of a sunny beach where they can eat lunch.
Toronto in spring.
I dream of a rebirth of hope, but am somewhere in between now, and you, Sylvia, and the day we burned our dream.
And so, exactly where am I, and who am I now, you may ask? —Because like Prospero I have many reinventions.
I am the Phoenix.
I build my own funeral pyre—sweeten it with myrrh and spices, only to consume myself and rise again.
But if I’m truly honest I admit to myself—I am the person you loved, Sylvia—and then casually threw away.
Spring sunshine has a quality
Transcending rooks and the hammerings
Of those who hang new pictures,
Asking if it is worth it
To clamour and caw, to add stick to stick for ever.
I say the lines and leave them hanging out to dry.
I picture my mother in the backyard pegging freshly washed sheets on the line. I see the cross they’re hanging from—the one I died upon a dozen times—but you wouldn’t understand.
I was only a child, but loved you then.
Can’t you understand?
“I don’t get it, Doctor Benson—What’s MacNeice trying to say?”
Shannon Morris is frowning, furrowing her freckled brow, trying to wrap her mind around an experience that can only elude her.
She’s beautiful—inspiring.
Education is wasted on the young.
“Have you ever felt torn between the futility of hope and the promise of the new, Ms. Morris?”
She frowns. I chuckle indulgently. “No, of course, you haven’t. You’re much too young and still believing.”
“Believing in what, Professor?”
“Does it matter? —The first snowfall, summer clouds…the promise of spring—and the expectancy that love might be on the wing.”
“So, you’re saying the poet’s jaded?”
No, my Muse, I’m saying I’m jaded.
“I’m saying it’s similar to what Eliot said in The Wasteland about April being the cruelest month.”
“Because it mixes memory with desire?”
I arch an eyebrow and look at her curiously.
“That and the fact the Sybl is hanging in a cage wanting to die,” I smile cynically.
“I suppose that’s what happens when you trade your virginity for a handful of sand.”
The class titters. I smile.
“Nicely done, Ms. Morris—you surprise me.”
She smiles.
“O wonderful student, that can so astonish her teacher,” I add.
The frown’s back momentarily—and then a flash of sunlight. “Isn’t that an allusion to Hamlet, Doctor Benson?”
I nod. I am impressed.
The Hart House bells are chiming. Testing the carillons? I glance at the clock—four p.m.—the lecture’s over.
I watch the students file out—answer the usual obligatory questions then reach for my briefcase.
“Do you have a minute Dr. Benson?”
It’s Shannon. Despite my outward calm, my heart is racing.
“Ms. Morris—a reprise of the student surpassing the teacher, perhaps?”
“Highly unlikely—more a case of lowly graduate student, hat in hand, requesting a huge favor.”
She is flawlessly beautiful—clear complexion, almost transparent, huge green eyes and shiny long blonde hair. Where did I go wrong in my youth?
“Where’s your hat?” I tease.
“I’ll show you if you let me buy you a coffee in the coffee shop.”
I hesitate—only because of protocol—my body’s singing like a tuning fork.
I’m not sure where this is going but fear where it might end.
Luckily I don't drink Coffee, but would be sorely tempted!
Well, as Freud might say, sometimes a coffee is just a coffee, but mostly it's not ;)
I'd go for the coffee - sometimes you must also live for the present.
so true...and often our wishes are the smokescreen for our desires
Hello @johnjgeddes, thank you for sharing this creative work! We just stopped by to say that you've been upvoted by the @creativecrypto magazine. The Creative Crypto is all about art on the blockchain and learning from creatives like you. Looking forward to crossing paths again soon. Steem on!
Thank you!