The Death of Spring

Something unusual happened to the season today, to this season which has been dragging its cold, wet feet across the month of May. The day started inauspiciously. After parting the curtains only to see another morning cloaked in gray, lethargy enveloped us like the fog outside our bedroom window. At the end of the driveway we stooped over the newspaper and then shuffled back inside, avoiding the ocean of dreariness suspended above, as if even one furtive glance would release more rain. Spring has been an imposter this year, a slow, cold turning of the earth that has kept us frowning, if ever so politely.

Today, though, was different. While sitting in our Sunday chair a sudden streak of sunlight crossed the room. We set down our paper, turned off the lamp and decided to get dressed. After gathering together in the garden, or by the baseball diamond, or on the trail, we waited for someone to get the audacity to ask what only the most optimistic would dare. Overhead the haze transformed into a whirlpool of blue and white, and the breeze billowed our jackets.

By the time the first of us got up enough nerve to say it, spring was gone. Swept away by the turbulence of its approaching replacement, its death was marked by movement everywhere, as if Earth was shaking off the last bits of ice from its fields. Swirls of dusty columns blew by playgrounds, sending children scattering. Clusters of branches overhead nodded in irregular waves, and invisible hands brushed the rows of honeysuckle lining the park. Bluejays and cardinals streaked in front of us and then turned and flew back the other way, unable to decide which yard held the most promise. The afternoon sun seemed to boomerang off buildings and cars into our eyes. Spectators, cyclists, the kid on first base, all of us sensed the shifting of time this day had brought. We lingered outside after supper, turning our chairs toward the fading light. When you strode over the horizon with your promises we loved you, Spring, but you've stayed too long. Now go, and as your beauty dies, let another's be born.