Spring colourizes dead grass while I stand there in my bare feet, sponges. Spring is potential. Details burgeoning. Energy personified. Water runs marathons down ditches.
Slow down Spring. I know you can't but Summer is too hot, Winter too long. Autumn is second to my Spring but Autumn’s alluring colour is merely Spring’s closing credits. Spring establishes the story.
Spring was my father and brothers suddenly gone seeding for a month. Spring was my mother’s Iris spikes and Gladiola bulbs. Spring was my youth studying muddy water, wide sweeping Saskatchewan water sucked into culverts, an eddy twisting above the hole; I dropped a stick in there, ran across the road to the other side and I still want to know where it went. Now, Spring is April pussywillows on my daughter's birthday and the May green leaves on my son's birthday. I keep time with Spring so I won't waste it.