of Spring being late to her own party

Spring is white wine and scratchy grass picnics.

Spring is jam jars playing house on the pantry shelf.

Spring is an odd ramshackle bird in the middle of the city.

Spring is the sassafras forest scent I want to bottle up and sniff on dead winter days.

And much like her sister seasons, Spring is simply too much coffee.

Is Spring lingering where you are?

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