I can see you there, Spring, hiding beneath all of this mist and this chilly
bluster. You can't fool me. I've been walking through the rains and listening to the flowers and chatting with the bugs, and all I'm hearing is the end result of these April showers.
I've been spending whatever amounts of free time I have lately sitting at my
little blue table, watching the hazy grey sheets on Lake Union and drinking tea, making up stories about all of you. I do love the rains, and the weather of my city in all of its moods. But I am impatient (this comes as no surprise) for daylight that lasts until bedtime, and irresponsible road trips, and cold beer on hot days. I am impatient for dancing too late, for petting puppies, for talking about books until my tongue goes numb.
Any of these things could be happening right now. And to be perfectly honest, most of them are-my recent trip to the maudlin side of things notwithstanding. I have been having a whole lot of fun. But something about spring makes my palms itchy, makes me want to grab you by the shoulders and memorize the shades of your skin and the whorls of your fingerprints. It makes me want to be bold and shy, saucy and innocent: to go out and paint the town all night and to stay home and reorganize my closets.
So you just hurry up and get here, Spring. I have a lot of adventuring to do.
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