Spring is coming, and Summer after her. I am certain she is on the way, but I expected she would be here by now.
March hinted at her imminent arrival, serving up several >60-degree days, and failing to deliver the usual ten inches of snow. Winter had packed his bags, and was standing by the door. We stood beside him and opened it, attempting to usher him out.
Yet even now he lingers, reluctant to release his place. It snowed again last week. Just a dusting. Still, it was snow. Snarl. Winter telling one more story before picking up his suitcase and heading down the walk.
Where is Spring? I long for Spring to come in and make herself at home.
Winter keeps tossing out his tired tales. We’ve lost our ability to smile at his stories, and instead hurl our disappointment at him, hoping to drive him away. He is oblivious, our words breaking against his cold to no effect.
I shift my gaze to the end of the walk where the forsythia blooms. Yellow promises. Spring sends these flowers ahead to reassure me, “I will come! I will be there!” This bush is just a taste of sunshine, a sampling of her delights. “Hold onto hope. I am on my way!”