March Comes in Like a Lion…
When I was a little girl in school in Lexington, Kentucky (which, unlike our Southern California beach town, has four very distinct Norman Rockwell calendar-style seasons), the teachers always heralded March (and the implied onset of spring) by repeating the old refrain: “March comes in like a lion, and out like a lamb.” A rather anthropomorphic approach to the pedagogy of meteorology, but I liked it and, like most adages, it stuck around in our young brains, or at least it did in mine.
We’ve been having our own version of leonine spring in Laguna Beach, haven’t we? Rain, clouds, a heavy veil overhanging the sea. It’s delightfully exotic and puts me in mind of the following poem by the contemporary American poet and writer, Edward Hirsch. If you like this poem and would like to see more work by Edward Hirsch, I particularly recommend The Living Fire: New and Selected Poems, 1972–2010.
Happy almost spring, Laguna Beach!
Saturday morning in late March.
I was alone and took a long walk,
though I also carried a book
of the Alone, which companioned me.
The day was clear, unnaturally clear,
like a freshly wiped pane of glass,
a window over the water,
and blue, preternaturally blue,
like the sky in a Magritte painting,
and cold, vividly cold, so that
you could clap your hands and remember
winter, which had left a few moments ago—
if you strained you could almost see it
disappearing over the hills in a black parka.
Spring was coming but hadn't arrived yet.
I walked on the edge of the park.
The wind whispered a secret to the trees,
which held their breath
and scarcely moved.
On the other side of the street,
the skyscrapers stood on tiptoe.
I walked down to the pier to watch
the launching of a passenger ship.
Ice had broken up on the river
and the water rippled smoothly in blue light.
The moon was a faint smudge
in the clouds, a brushstroke, an afterthought
in the vacant mind of the sky.
Seagulls materialized out of vapor
amidst the masts and flags.
Don't let our voices die on land,
they cawed, swooping down for fish
and then soaring back upwards.
The kiosks were opening
and couples moved slowly past them,
arm in arm, festive.
Children darted in and out of walkways,
which sprouted with vendors.
Voices greeted the air.
Kites and balloons. Handmade signs.
Voyages to unknown places.
The whole day had the drama of an expectation.
Down at the water, the queenly ship
started moving away from the pier.
The passengers clustered at the rails on deck.
I stood with the people on shore and waved
goodbye to the travelers.
Some were jubilant;
others were broken-hearted.
I have always been both.
Suddenly, a great cry went up.
The ship set sail for the horizon
and rumbled into the future
but the cry persisted
and cut the air
like an iron bell ringing
in an empty church.
I looked around the pier
but everyone else was gone
and I was left alone
to peer into the ghostly distance.
I had no idea where that ship was going
but I felt lucky to see it off
and bereft when it disappeared.
— Edward Hirsch, "Late March" from Poetry Magazine (July/August '07)