Hesitation

The hesitation of spring is found in the late-season, early-morning snow. Melting slowly in the warmth of the dawning day. Imperceptible blossoms, too small to catch the mirror of the common eye, drink hard. Then late afternoon, come showers brief and brittle, pulsating like a thousand heartbeats on the pavement, with full apology of mist and parted clouds, revealing sunlight and warmth. There is no headlong rush of running steps or breathless shouting voice announcing it’s arrival. It’s easy-winding melancholy hard with all attending bumps and bruises; a game of rough-house football in the yard. Fun-frantic serious, dragging it’s way into the late evening dark way past what we think a spring should be. It’s late. Offering only excuses of bluster and fuss. But then I wonder, should we ask? What spring might think of us.