Spring arrives here softly, and mostly as color and touch. The poem piles up gentle images: pale pastels, a blush of mauve, green that has lost its loudness. Nothing happens in the usual sense. Instead, the scene seems to settle around the reader, with water, noon light and a waving hand all blending into one calm picture.
The speaker seems quietly admiring, even reverent. Phrases like "the water's prayer" and "grace of positional gentleness" give nature a hushed, almost spiritual feel. The ending, with its "tactile method" of "cradling," suggests the whole season is held like something fragile and precious.
The title points to Ron Carter, and judging by the flowing, broken lines and soft sounds, the poem may be trying to echo music in words. The fragmented layout makes you slow down, as if you were listening note by note. The mood is tender, dreamy and peaceful, more a feeling to sink into than a story to follow.