Written by Lindsay Mensch
“Spring has sprung”
feels like a lie to me.
I haven’t seen flowers bound from the dirt
and felt warmth fill the air
with the snap of a finger.
Spring doesn’t gather its energy over three seasons
to release it in a spontaneous, combustible burst;
it burns slowly,
it takes its time coming about.
Spring creeps in the corners of winter,
in its warm bunker until the sun returns.
It peeks its head out,
on its own terms.
Spring grows like a contagion on the
low spirits of all; their sadness melts away
with the snow.
Spring doesn’t spring;
it blooms like the tulips
that are characteristic of the time.
It must fight the frost
to emerge from the earth.
When people say,
“Spring has sprung,”
they mustn’t be personifying the season.
They must be leaping themselves,
into the joy and life
of the planet’s rebirth.