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.