Spring doesn't care about you,
or your heavy heart,
or that you’ve walked so far,
or that you work so hard
and dreamed so secretly.
Spring could care less.

There is work to be done:
flowers must be forced opened,
the air must be made warm,
leaves must be pulled out
to be laid bare to the sun.
There is no time for you.

Yes, Spring doesn't care,
but you may watch Spring work,
soak up the pale yellow light,
curse the remittent snows
and perhaps forget.

And, if you are born again too
it will not matter to the Spring.
But, it may matter to you.
She will come anyway.
Why not come too?


The title needs clarification.

Perhaps Real spring cares. What I am angry about is fake spring. Faux spring- the appearance of spring before the warm weather arrives- the tease, the almost-not quite. Days that swing back and forth between 70 degree Fahrenheit and 35. The type of spring days that Garrison Keillor described as "pretty murals painted on painful brick walls."

Fake spring promises us baseball, before there are games, outdoor cafes filled with beautiful women who stretch out their legs under skirts pulled above their knees. It can't deliver- it won't deliver. It is only the appearance of spring -not the real deal. A pale imitation. A cheap knock-off..

Fake spring exists only to frustrate us. It doesn't care about anyone.

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