Oh, Spring. I have been ignoring you, smashing into someone else's turn with all of this bluster and flash, all of these cold windy nights. I don't feel like I got a whole winter's worth of winter, and I am worried that you have torn open all of these flowers too early, that you will take a little break before you are here for good and that in the meantime all of those flowers will die. I'm just having a hard time trusting you.
I'd rather not have to step over a sidewalk pasted with the thick purple petals of the flowers that line my walk, you see. I like those petals to stay where they are until they turn brown, I prefer them not hurled to the ground before their time. I'm sure you understand.
But yesterday on the bus Hemingway told me, "When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest." And, fine. He's sort of right. So I give in, Spring. Nice to see you again.