The trees spread color like psychic airwaves, crisping and tinting and fresh-edging the world for your eyes.
Making the world loud and beautiful in front of your face.
When the green arrives it makes the words "20 days hath September, April May and November" trip off of my mother's tongue and spin around her head.
People brag about their achievements, their next destination now.
Flowers are pressed to parents' chests for ballet recitals, to children's chests because they were plucked.
And when the rain departs from its late arrival, dragging grey-haired dandelions in its wake,
When the sun comes out and spreads itself in crumpled splotches, bronzing with the dawn,
I'm right here.
Locked behind words, obligations, a screen, an assignment.
All the while June--with her dirty fingernails and her grass-stained knees--beckons us forth, calls us on to slide down the last slope of time until we can call ourselves free.
Spring will count for you the time it takes in cricket chirps, in falling petals.
Spring is the art of moving on.