I love spring. It’s my favorite season by far. The crispness turning to warmth with an ever more present sun. The worms poking their heads up. The returning flocks refreshing themselves in pop-up puddles of rainwater. The blossoms sprouting overnight, like children growing up way too fast. The lengthening days and the first nights huddled under a patio heater, hoping the combination of propane heat and red wine can keep enough feeling in the extremities. Eager blades of grass pushing up against the branch graveyard leftover from winter storms. The earth is pulsing, vibrating. After the first warm rain, even the “telephone wires, above, are sizzling like a snare.” — a nod to the impending summer and its requisite sadness. But we’re not there yet, because everything is new right now baby!

I know I’m in the minority. Everybody likes autumn. You probably like autumn. It’s ok, I get it. There’s smoke and fire and coziness and cider. Flannel and hay, apples to pick and pumpkins to weigh.

And death. And decay. Leaves plummeting in the final throes of their weakening chlorophyl. The sun pulling away in the slow and painful distancing of a disenfranchised lover who can no longer bear to keep up the charade. The very earth itself shrinking and hiding, curling inward in a futile attempt to avoid the cold embrace of death’s chill.

It’s right there in the name. Fall.

I prefer to Spring.