Poem: Spring is Not

Spring is not the first whisper of snow
on a cold December night.
It is not chilly evenings with twinkle lights
strung to keep the darkness at bay.
It is not pine trees or poinsettia.

Spring is not pajamas with cozy fleece feet.
It is not heated blankets or flannel sheets,
wool socks, or turtleneck sweaters.
It is not ice, newly formed, on barren fields.
It is not a winter wonderland.

Spring is not a snowflake.
It is not holly wreaths, a shopping list,
peppermint, tinsel, or presents under the tree.

Spring is not mature and it is not a ski chalet.
It is not your aunt Ned’s hand-knit scarf.

It is not the turning of leaves
red, green, and gold.
It is not cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie
or a football game.
It is not cozying up with a book,
yoga pants, a cashmere blanket 
or hot cocoa and a roaring fire.

Spring is not dark or dismal,
death or decay.
It is not packing up and putting away.

Spring is not asleep.

It does not smolder in the midday sun.
It is not lemonade or ice cream
or the endless flat white heat 
of a fairground parking lot.
Spring is not a shining swimming pool.
It is not sparklers, hot dogs, 
or red white and blue.

Spring is not to be trusted;
it is not a twilight sky.
Spring is not a homecoming
or a sleek September tan.

Spring is not 
for everyone.

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