Spring

Every year, without fail, on the first evening the temperature rises and the rain is fat and soft, I hear this poem in my head:

The Return of the Rivers

All the rivers run into the sea;

yet the sea is not full;

unto the place from whence the rivers come,

thither they return again.

It is raining today

in the mountains.

It is a warm green rain

with love

in its pockets

for spring is here,

and does not dream

of death.

Birds happen music

like clocks ticking heavens

in a land

where children love spiders,

and let them sleep

in their hair.

A slow rain sizzles

on the river

like a pan

full of frying flowers,

and with each drop

of rain

the ocean

begins again. 

-Richard Brautigan

Every year for more than twenty.

My copy of 'The Pill versus The Springhill Mine Disaster', taken from my parents shelves when I was probably thirteen, is now a stack of loose, crumbling pages. But each year the return of spring still feels like new magic and this unprompted, internal recitation warms me and brings me back to myself, back to my joy. This is how I know spring is really here.