I Just Dislike Spring.

I hate the smell of spring. 

It is the scent of things pretending to be new,
a wet, thawing lie draped over the earth,
like a washrag that was used to clean the stale breath of winter

Flowers—such an odd concept,
fragile declarations of beauty we amplify beyond reason.
They frame love….they frame loss,
just as present in the grip of vows as in the hush of mourning at farewells.

Their presence lingers too briefly,
a fast-dying pretense,
petals curling inward like hands grasping at nothing. 

Such a morbid reflection of love that dies.. beauty that does not last.

I hate the sound of spring.

The school buses rattle with exhaustion,
their engines cough….their brakes groan,
as if they, too, are limping toward summer’s release.
The children inside lean heavier against the windows,
their backpacks sag with the weight of a year nearly over,
the morning light sharpening what was once soft in September.

Lawnmowers sputter, choking on the neglect of winter,
their blades dulled by months of stillness.
They grumble awake, hacking uneven paths through damp grass,
spitting clumps of green like something half-digested.

And the fields….oh, the fields..
where soccer kids shiver in too-thin jerseys,
their teeth clattering in a syncopated percussion,
morning games starting in frost,
ending in the glare of a too-eager sun.
Shin guards damp from dew heavily resting on the morning grass,
cheeks flushed with the confusion of seasons
that do not commit to warmth or cold,
only to the ache of in-between.

I hate the thought of spring.

The way it lingers in uncertainty,
neither the sharp bite of winter nor the fevered breath of summer,
just the aching pause between them.
Like dusk stretched too thin…..
where the sky forgets whether to hold the last of the light
or surrender deeply to the dark.

Spring is an unreliable friend.

It holds hands with frost in the morning….
then flirts with summer by afternoon,
never choosing a side, never keeping a promise.

Inconsistent she is.

Winter leaves behind its wreckage..
cracked roads, salt-stained earth,
air still sharp with unfinished cold
and spring shrugs, too feeble to mend it.

Fall departs with beautiful dignity….a slow surrender,
but spring stumbles in gracelessly,
mud-slicked and unsteady,
draped in flowers that wilt too soon,
wrapped in warmth that never fully arrives.

It is the season of indecision,
a bridge between two certainties,
yet too fragile to stand on its own.

I just don’t like Spring.