The heat and humidity following the vernal equinox bleeds the ink of my pen and smears the stains of my writing on the page.
The crocus thrive with steadfast confidence.
The daffodils explode perfectly.
The primrose remain fussy divas.
The rose bushes work hard despite struggling.
A place with seasons shocks me.
Just as my skin adjusted to the same color of the lily white opalescent tenor of the frequent snow,
The spring sun shocks my flesh into the rosy red of a proper sunburn.
No sooner has spring spring before I realize I must prepare my soul for the not too distant summer.
My scratchmade buttermilk biscuits finally learn to rise.
A new oven; a new season.
A novel sense of urgency.
It is the season to become.