Fragile

Spring is a blossom crushed 

Unbeknownst to you, in your clammy palm. 

It’s a season made of glass, 

Fragile, disintegrating 

Like the April showers filling 

Cracks in the pavement. 

Spring deludes you 

With days of blooms and blue skies 

And nights of frog-songs through open windows, 

Makes you believe the soft peacefulness 

Will last forever, 

Drowns you in delicious lies. 

Spring is breakable, tarnishes 

Easily, 

With the flip of a switch, 

Of a month, a new page 

On the calendar, soon to be filled 

With Sharpied plans for summer. 

Summer — what a word! 
Summer is not breakable, 

It is robust, it is healthy. 

(The smell of fresh-cut grass 

Lingers in the air far longer  

Than blossoms ever do.) 

Nobody worries about summer, but 

Spring, starting with snowball fights in heavy coats, 

Ending with the clandestine cold of ice cream after a bike ride, 

Is gone before you know it. 

Instead of days filled with endless time, lemonade and 

Lazy swims, 

Spring is full of exams and dances and stress, 

And before you know it, 

You’re clinging to the last tendrils 

Of a fragile blossom 

That is only crumbling even more.