“She is coming, my own, my sweet.
Be it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat.”
– Lord Alfred Tennyson
Timid Spring, do come back.
Come back to stay. No more of these quick sunny kisses, wrapping us up in your arms only to leave again.
In your coming, you leave us breathless with promises of sheets drying in the sun, berry stained fingers and bare feet. Lemon pies and tender green things, buttercup noses and lying on our bellies watching the ceaseless industry of ants.
But then you go again, leaving only brown, grey, questions of when, when will we see her again?
When you leave, look back and see us gasping, shivering, aching for your embrace, and turn ’round.
Come back Spring. We promise to love you, breathe you, delight in all your charms.
Come back Spring.