The Death of Spring
By: Amanda Judge
Amanda Judge (she/they) is a Psychology and English major pursuing the creative writing field at NMSU. Her poem, “The Death of Spring” focuses on our impact on the environment as we continue developing technology and mass-producing the newest items. Spring is their favorite season and each year spring becomes shorter and shorter due to climate change and the worsening condition of the planet. “The Death of Spring” is meant to shed some light on the matter while also highlighting the responsibility she feels for contributing.
Spring!
Spring is a magical season with
blooming flowers and bees fluttering
to craft new beauty.
What do I have to offer to Spring?
Tulips that I buy for myself?
The tulips that come wrapped in plastic
that I throw away.
Throw away is kind of ironic.
I don’t throw it away by
truly disposing of it.
I throw it out of my sight. It goes someplace
else. It’s not much different from littering.
It’s littering with more awareness.
Surely, I have some other asset to Spring, right?
It’s rather selfish, actually.
I absorb the sunlight but I don’t
exchange anything for its service.
It provides me clarity and an escape
from the doom of winter
yet the only thing I return is plastic
wrappings from my tulips.
I interact with Spring.
I go on walks and feed the birds.
And I listen.
The rushing roar of a river combined
with the ballads belted by birds on
tree branches bewitch me, all while
the sun shines serendipitously, soaking
the surface with something
soothing and sincere.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see
something out of place.
Something almost soulless.
A metallic cylinder,
that is almost crushed.
And it lays across the flowerbeds,
crushing them too. Their petals
atrociously pinned down to the
point that they’re being torn from
its body.
I pick it up and place it in the metal-born
bin nearly meters away from this grave site.
It will take weeks for that flower to
resprout its petal. Maybe even months.
Yards ahead of me, the same thing occurs.
It occurs in larger volumes as I continue
down the line and I pick them up:
can after can, after can, after can.
But my arms become full and I cannot
hold anything more.
I stare ahead of me, trying to find the source.
What is this liter invading spring?
And I see.
Tall. Wide. Grey. And large.
The smoke swarming out and
circling the sky above.
The smog slowly shrinking my lungs
and my breathing that was smooth
a few meters back.
The sign ahead paints a gnarly picture
but the smoke is too thick.
All I see is toxic.
I continue forward.
Who is degrading spring?
What is draining the land?
The audible click clack of the spring
doesn’t come from the rain meeting
on the pavement. It comes from
the factory down the way, polluting
the nearest river.
The river’s roaring waters are not
because it is so full of life, but rather
because it is trying to escape
the oil and chemical warfare unleashed.
It is trying to find an outlet.
An outlet similar to how I
escape from winter in spring.
The grinding gears of the garage’s
garbage that pummels the garden
grabs my surveillance and that sinking
doom I feel in winter comes crushing back.
Except it isn’t doom.
It’s rage.
A fervent fury from within my essence
boils out and I cannot help but cry.
Why would they do such a thing?
Not an ounce of Springtime
exists in this field. It is all dirt,
gray, dust, and waste.
I think of the plastic on my tulips
this morning. And how I threw it out.
And how I felt guilty for that.
How could these people do such
a thing? They have blood on their
hands and they don’t bat an eye.
I watched Spring die.
I watched them drain the
color and life from the seasons
and they made the world an everlasting
winter, only it was hot. It was muggy.
It was unbearable.
I warned them. I spoke on behalf of Spring.
But they didn’t listen.
They didn’t want to listen.
They just continued producing their precious
pieces all while I perilously perfect my
plastic wrapped tulips.
Part of me died the day
I witnessed the factory.
The factory that killed Spring.