Spring, when she comes, is a sneaky and conniving bitch. She waits till we are sick of the cold, sick of the wet feet and the dreary, sick of the metal grey and dripping noses. And then she sets her her sunlight loose on us.

She beguiles us into abandoning coats for sweaters and leggings for socks. And she warms us with quiet warm fingers, pale and lovely. And she stretches her delicate little leaves and grows tiny green shoots.

She blows a chill wind, but we are heedless, trying to soak up the light. And we stretch, move, because there is a limit to how long we can sit bundled and stiff, immobile against the harsh and defensive against the cold.

We stretch, move, unfurl, like so many cliched similes, but we, we need this sunlight the same as everything else.

Spring smells like movement and sun and growth. She is naughty and tempting and seductive and sly, luring us out with her pale light and keeping us out with her freedom spiked breezes.

Spring's Blue plate special is

cold in the morning, warm in the afternoon
inviting us to take walks, eat outside and
stay up late listening for crickets, counting stars
wondering about trips we took when we were


When spring meant
everything and
bedtime was always too early.

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