I know you’re budding out, pert and peppy in all your glory spring. I feel you beckon me with your flirtatious ways, flowing sap, and saucy spirit, so that I can’t resist your charms, but that only means trouble is looming on the horizon.
Our love affair is fraught with predictable problems, and I should know better than to trust you after all these years. With you, spring, I get bees that sting, sunburn, in spite of the block, and broken fingernails from poking around in your fertile bed. But that’s not the half of it. You make me hot—my temperature rises with hope held high for planting. Were it not for you, I wouldn’t envision brilliant flowers and juicy tomatoes that taste like tomatoes making their grand entrance all around after teasing them with gentle love and holy water.
But I know my dreams will be dashed by loving you. You make me love you, and then you invite your ill-mannered friends to our garden party and leave me broken-hearted, empty. After each fruitful day with you, I awaken to see that overnight, every new leaf and bud has been silently nipped. Your treacherous friends have left smelly tracks and dangerous ticks in their wake, while your face opens into a wide blue smile and you wink at me as only you can.
Sorry, spring, I’m not falling for this again. Now I wonder where I left my hoe.