Re-edit of Spring, you bastard

As opposed to fakin' the funk, and just going back to edit or update the previous post, I thought I'd include you in the "creative" process. So, here is my new (final) version of this poem. Happy 4th of July.

Spring, you bastard:
Give it up already.
Calendar summer has nearly begun,
and you're still here.
Cool and blustery,
no hint of humidity--
though we will curse it when there is.

Perhaps I spoke too soon.

Like so much else,
we like you when you're gone,
want you when you're
fleeting,
retreating.
The way
New Yorkers want
nothing more than to escape—
till we do, then can't wait
to return to
your sweltering
embrace,
your suffocating
comfort,
your painful
familiarity.

For years now,
you've had barely a week,
sliding from winter to summer
graceless as the city itself.
So maybe you're not a bastard,
born of slovenly winter
and wandering summer.
Maybe, finally, like a
phoenix born from the ashes of fall,
summer grants winter custodial rights,
and brief spring, you
come for
court ordered visitation.



Interestingly similar shape as the graph I posted with the original version of the poem, showing that more people now believe global warming is not man made. Seems at odds with this graph above in some way. Hm.