This slow-burn of a song, ‘The Sky is Crying‘, feels like a fitting start to the finale of spring, which arrives in a pair of blog posts tomorrow. (Forewarned is fair-warned: there is some stripped-down nakedness in one of them to go along with the soul-baring.)
Spring has been an angel and a devil this year – this song exemplifies its diabolically delicious nature.
Matching the music’s agitated unrest, the weather decided to get all kinds of dramatic for spring’s penultimate evening. It is unsettled weather. The wind is chaotic – swirling out of nowhere one minute, departing and instantly dropping its power the next. The clouds are Cumulonimbus – enormously imposing, like some stretch of formidable mountains, or some impossibly deep, drowning sea.
Sunlight appears in patches, sometimes backed by a bright blue, sometimes disappearing behind gray. It’s not as uneasy as yesterday’s tornado warnings had us feeling, but it was distressed weather, and the sky wasn’t sure what it wanted to do other than warn us of something. Spring wasn’t quite ready to let go and summer was not sure she should appear. What are we to make of all this? It feels like too much.
Spring has traditionally been a tricky emotional time – thawing the brutality of winter with a tender bit of rebirth, and even if we’ve been here countless times before, it always feels fresh and exciting and new. It gives the heart a giddy spin, swirling on the sweet perfume of apple blossoms and Korean viburnum. The intoxicating magic of a spring evening. It swirls differently on the eve of its last day, portending of summer uneasiness, summer ambivalence, summer blues…
