From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer’s story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight
Drawn after you, – you pattern of all those.
Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.

It may not feel like spring where you are, but where I am, the flowers are already blooming. The first springtime storms are beginning, and the breeze brings hints of summer. My daughter and I wear skirts and dresses; my children pick up fallen blossoms. But back home, there was recently still snow on the ground. The nights are still frozen, and nothing should be growing yet. I miss that place. I love this weather here in Tulsa, but there are people waiting for me back in Michigan.

When I read this sonnet, I hear the laughter from the sternest hearts; I see the earth bedecked in the loveliest array from the Lord. All of creation shouts with joy and life! But still, my heart has a corner of sadness. Even in these joys, even in this delightful weather, under the blue skies, among the blossoming life, a part of me remembers that I am not with some dearly loved people. These delights, though lovely, are but figures, a pattern, substitutes for and reminders of the people I am absent from. And so, I know how Shakespeare can say it seems like winter — full of coldness and lifelessness — among the first days of spring. I will walk among them, and enjoy them, but my thoughts will be with those away.

Blessings to you and yours,

~Madelyn Rose Craig