Did you ever wonder what Canada did so wrong that we don’t get spring? Apart from some parts of BC, I mean.
In Ottawa, we sprint from bare branches to full leaf in about a week, as if dawdling were too painful, but my real complaint is more about consistency.
I’ve lived in three provinces — Alberta, Saskatchewan, Ontario — and there is a distinct paucity of spring in all of those. After February, winter decays directly into summer. Unattractively. It goes like this: cold, grey, summery heat, cold, autumnal rains, grey, summery heat, cold. And then it’s full-bore summer until the fall.
Where is the intervening stage between winter and summer of which the poets speak: the days of light jackets, blue skies, budding life, freshening rains, and fresher air? For, like, more than one day in a row.
No, spring on this side of the Rockies is what you’d expect if you put the other three seasons in a paper bag and shook like hell. But it is what it is. And although it isn’t spring, that’s what we call it.
This week the cognitive dissonance of pan-seasonal images inspired another haiku.
Grey imbues the air;
cold rain slicks down branch and twig.
Shoots embrace the drips.