Spring Is Overrated

Just when we think it’s safe to leave the house,
grin into the sunshine,
wind chill nips us like rhubarb up too early.
All that bright promise
leaves us shivering in short jackets, no gloves,
our ear tips burning with frostbite.

Spring doesn’t stay settled warm and comfortable
on earth’s shoulder, though
not meaning to mislead anymore than you do,
when you flirt, smile, say you’ll call
then retreat cold as melting slush.

Spring ground waits,
onion sets sit cold, the same size for weeks;
green peppers like shy lovers curl around themselves.
This soil, unable to warm, is reluctant as your kiss.

by Cheryl Arends