Spring, you bastard.

The following was inspired by the previous post's Hemingway excerpt--and this ridiculous season we've been in. This was written for the Creative Writing class I'm currently taking, and will be posting a few others as well. Enjoy.

Spring, you bastard:
Give it up already.
Calendar summer is nearly here,
and yet you still are.
Cool and blustery,
no hint of humidity--
though, surely, I will curse it when it is.
So, perhaps I spoke too soon,
dear season.
As with so much else,
we like you when you're gone,
we want you when you're fleeting,
retreating.
The way a New Yorker wants
nothing more than escape--
until they do, then can't wait,
to return to your sweltering
embrace,
your suffocating
comfort,
your painful familiarity.

For many years now, spring,
you've had barely a week here,
sliding from winter to summer with
the gracelessness of the city itself.
So maybe you're not a bastard;
a child born of slovenly winter and elusive summer.
Maybe, finally, a phoenix born of the ashes of fall,
when summer gives way to winter's custodial rights,
and you, spring, however brief,
come to us for a court demanded visitation.