The Rites of Spring

A named Mercury plies the air above his fountain in the Phipps Conservatory. Children wet their fingers in the receiving pool and stare up at possibilities that may enable them someday to match the blossoming in the Amazonian Room. Co-eds with athletic boys, muscular Pitts and tall Duquesnes, meander through the scented aisles, enlisting spirits of the place to augment flirtatious smiles. Wedding guests accompany a bride and groom who set their basic blue amidst the foil of dappled bloom and celebrate their day with words they’ve learned to say. Then from a group home crowd a single swain steps forth and casts his gaze on all around and asks the god, “O where is my Marilyn; who took my Marilyn away?” I cannot answer him and the god above, as silent as a stone, appears to have no power-- no balloons or wedding bells or maps to Love’s sweet bower. When the saddened lover asks again, "O Marilyn; who took my Marilyn away?" she appears, not taken, only loaned, to trees and flowers and charmingly atones for all her wandering. Standing before the door, she smiles broadly at her lover. I see him see her. Our hearts soar.