Cupid, aged 60, sagging, gray, stands atop a February hill, as he has done on this day every year for centuries, and conjures:*

                    Cras amet qui numquam amavit,

                          quique amavit, cras amet.

                    (May tomorrow bring love to the loveless,

                          and to lovers—love renewed.)

It’s a big job.  These days, he thinks, perhaps too big.  He wishes he were home in bed.  And he knows exactly whom he wishes were in bed beside him.  Psyche. Then he remembers.  She was human, and she is gone.

Cupid gets back to business:

                    Miraculous spring!  Spring of melody,

                    season of lovers united and courting birds,

                    when trees, locked in the wind's embrace,

                    shake out their hair like laughing girls.

                          May tomorrow bring love to the loveless,

                          and to lovers—love renewed!

Nothing happens.

The snow does not melt.  The trees do not blossom.  The birds are not singing.  That chill wind blowing past his ear might actually be laughing—at him!

Cupit grits his teeth; conjures again:

                    The land is alive with desire! 

                    The countryside thrills to the power of Venus. 

                    Even Cupid, her son, say the poets,

                    was born in the springtime,

                    and nursed on the nectar of flowers.

                          May tomorrow bring love to the loveless,

                          and to lovers—love renewed!

Still nothing.  Nada.  Zip.

Cupid shakes his head.  That was then; this is now, he thinks.  It’s ages since I suckled anything remotely like a flower.  I can’t even remember what “nectar of flowers” tastes like.  I was a baby, playing with my little bow and arrows.  It’s no wonder I was always getting into trouble. What self-respecting deity hands a loaded weapon to a child?

It’s a good thing even we immortals age; just not as fast as humans.  Zeus and the rest gave up, retired early. But I was just hitting my stride when the Roman Empire went down.  Then came the Middle Ages! The Renaissance! Chivalry! Romance!  Those were the days!

Cupid bucks up; smiles; goes back to conjuring:

                    See, Cupid lays his bow aside. 

                    He comes to dance among the nymphs,

                    and not to do them harm. 

                    Ah, but beware, nymphs, 

                    for Cupid is handsome—

                    even naked, he is not unarmed!

                          May tomorrow bring love to the loveless,

                          and to lovers—love renewed!

Any change?  Perhaps.  Still, not the awesome transformation he’d been counting on.

Cupid sighs. “Even naked he is not unarmed…”  What a joke!  Try that today, he thinks, and those errant “nymphs” would hot foot it to the authorities, have me hauled off as a flasher, a pervert!   Whatever happened to innocent enjoyment?  Careless rapture? 

But wait.  Is that a flower I see?  Yes!  Definitely. A snowdrop.  And the air has changed too.  It’s stirring, restless, eager even…but still cold, still winter.  Must try again.

Cupid shuts his eyes, clenches his fists in concentration, conjures:

                    Bulls mount their heifers in the fields,

                    and rams their ewes.  The trumpeting

                    of swans disturbs the quiet lake.

                    The nightingale's lament might almost

                    be a song of love—so sweet it sounds.

                          May tomorrow bring love to the loveless,

                          and to lovers—love renewed!

Cupid opens his eyes.  Looks around, relaxes somewhat.

Better, still not perfect. 

High above, a wedge of geese goes honking by, headed northward. Green shoots show here and there in the softening drifts. And, he thinks with satisfaction, if that yellow haze in the trees over there isn’t buds about to blossom, I’m no judge!

Cupid smiles.  With arms spread wide, he conjures one more time:

                    When nightingales are singing,

                    it is time for poets to be still.

                    My muse is silent now.  Apollo scorns me.

                    But perhaps tomorrow...

                         "Cras amet qui numquam amavit,

                          quique amavit, cras amet."

                    May tomorrow bring love to the loveless,

                          and to lovers—love renewed!

His eyes survey the landscape hopefully.  Patches of bare ground here and there.  A few extensive puddles.  A clump of daffodils.  Forsythia not quite open. And lots of mud.

Cupid shrugs.   Well, that’ll have to do.  I had my doubts last year, but this time there’s no mistake.    Guess I just can’t do it like I used to. 

“Psssssssst.”

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me, the East Wind.”

“Eurus?”

“The same.  Heard you were out here blowing up a storm; thought I ought to tell you you’re wasting your time.”

“I am?”

“Yep.  Climate change.  World’s turning in a new direction.  Trust me, I get around.   I know what’s happening.”

“What you really mean is I’m worn out.  Finished!”

“No, no, no.  Just listen, will you.  Hem hem.  Go East, Old Man!” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?  And what’s so funny”

“Sorry, I’ve been waiting centuries to use that line!  But seriously.  All you really need is a change.  There’s a place I know where you would fit right in.”

“There is?”

“Oh yeah.  Trust me. They need you there big time!  Men. Women. Everyone.  All they do is work hard, constantly.  But you can make them happy.  I mean really happy!

“I can?”

“Why not?  You did it here for centuries.”

“But I was young then. Just a kid….”

“Okay. So it didn’t stick!  So what?  People get older.  Tastes change.  What’s cute at six, provocative at 16, grows—how do I put this—“tired” at sixty.  Take a good look at yourself.”

“What’s wrong with how I look?”

“Well, for one thing, you’re naked.”

“Oh.”

“Right.  Let’s just say you’d  look more impressive wearing clothes.  Oh, and another thing. Your name.”

“What about it.”

“Cupid?” Really.  Definitely lacks tone for a distinguished older gent like you.”

“Maybe you’re right.  Well, how about “Romantic Love, Esquire?”

“Mmmm. Okay.  A little long perhaps, but better.  Out East they’ll change it anyway.  But not to worry, you’ll pick up the lingo right away. Just find someone you like to practice with and…keep practicing.   Got to blow now. ‘Bye!”

[The East Wind exits, laughing.]

                                                                   *      *      *

Sure enough, Cupid got dressed, changed his name, searched out that distant Eastern land, and made his home there. 

And that is why, oh best-belovéd, should you ever travel to the island of Japan, you will find that Spring begins in February there; and Love (if not too brazenly displayed) is deemed appropriate at any age; and Santa Claus comes bearing Valentines.

                            -   //  -

———————————————

* Cupid’s conjuration here is patterned on the Pervigilium Veneris, an anonymous Latin poem of the 3rd Century A.D. or later.  Curious readers can find the original text, together with an English  prose translation in the Loeb Classical Library volume on Catullus, Tibullus, etc. (Harvard U. Press, revised ed.1962  pp. 343-367).