Spring Sunshine - A snowless winter, a fruitless spring...
A snowless winter, a fruitless spring and now a sky heaped high with cotton balls and clear confronted men in suits that spill out of the Stock Exchange looking for a bright sea shore where they can have lunch.
Toronto in spring.
I long for a resurrection of expectation, yet am some place in the middle of now, and you, Sylvia, and the day we consumed our fantasy.
Thus, precisely where am I, and who am I now, you may inquire? — Because like Prospero I have numerous reexaminations.
I am the Phoenix.
I manufacture my own memorial service fire—improve it with myrrh and flavors, just to expend myself and rise once more.
Be that as it may, in case I'm really fair I admit to myself—I am the individual you adored, Sylvia—and afterward calmly discarded.
*Spring daylight has a quality
Rising above rooks and the hammerings
Of the individuals who hang new pictures,
Inquiring as to whether it is justified, despite all the trouble
To noise and caw, to add stick to stick for ever.*
I state the lines and forget about them hanging to dry.
I picture my mom in the patio pegging newly washed sheets on the line. I see the cross they're dangling from—the one I passed on upon multiple times—however you wouldn't comprehend.
I was just a kid, yet cherished you at that point.
Wouldn't you be able to get it?
"I don't get it, Doctor Benson—What's MacNeice attempting to state?"
Shannon Morris is scowling, wrinkling her freckled forehead, attempting to understand an encounter that can just evade her.
She's excellent—moving.
Training is squandered on the youthful.
"Have you at any point felt torn between the vanity of expectation and the guarantee of the new, Ms. Morris?"
She scowls. I laugh liberally. "No, obviously, you haven't. You're excessively youthful and as yet accepting."
"Trusting in what, Professor?"
"Does it make a difference? — The principal snowfall, summer mists… the guarantee of spring—and the anticipation that adoration may be on the wing."
"Anyway, you're stating the artist's tainted?"
No, my Muse, I'm stating I'm jaded.
"I'm stating it's like what Eliot said in The Wasteland about April being the cruelest month."
"Since it blends memory in with want?"
I curve an eyebrow and take a gander at her inquisitively.
"That and the reality the Sybl is hanging in an enclosure needing to pass on," I grin negatively.
"I guess that is the thing that happens when you exchange your virginity for a bunch of sand."
The class titters. I grin.
"Pleasantly done, Ms. Morris—you shock me."
She grins.
"O brilliant understudy, that can so surprise her educator," I include.
The scowl's back immediately—and afterward a blaze of daylight. "Isn't that a mention to Hamlet, Doctor Benson?"
I gesture. I am intrigued.
The Hart House ringers are tolling. Testing the chimes? I look at the clock—four p.m.— the talk's finished.
I watch the understudies record out—answer the typical mandatory inquiries at that point go after my folder case.
"Do you have a moment Dr. Benson?"
It's Shannon. In spite of my outward quiet, my heart is hustling.
"Ms. Morris—a repeat of the understudy outperforming the instructor, maybe?"
"Profoundly impossible—increasingly an instance of modest alumni understudy, cap close by, mentioning an enormous kindness."
She is perfectly wonderful—clear composition, practically straightforward, colossal green eyes and glossy long light hair. Where did I turn out badly in my childhood?
"Where's your cap?" I bother.
"I'll show you on the off chance that you let me get you an espresso in the bistro."
I falter—simply because of convention—my body's singing like a tuning fork.
I don't know where this is going but rather dread where it may end.