The case against Spring

Then, like every year, comes the light.

By Annalisa Merelli1 min readUpdated July 20, 2022

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Then, like every year, comes the light.

Through the fire escape,

past your poor, brave plants, it sneaks into the living room

one inch at a time. It conquers the glass top of your

counterfeit

designer coffee table,

highlights the shoddy edges

twinkles on the particles of dust on that Georgia O’Keeffe book

you didn’t even flip through.

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It is a light so perfect we found a way to store it.

It’s daylight saving time; everybody: it’s spring time.

Blooming, sprouting, pollinating,

spring is the most violent of seasons.

Cherry blossoms, scent of magnolia—these are but a disguise,

hot pink, yellow camouflage for an impetuous burst of life.

Like being born, falling in love, spring is explosion, it’s trauma,

petals prying buds open, insects crawling out of eggs,

loud birds chirping their days away

all this life

forcing itself onto every last motionless winter leftover

commanding excitement, demanding action.

Aimless, enormous, forceful

rebellious thoughts, half baked ideas

unnecessary additions

to the maze-like list of lists of to-do lists

in which

you are,

forever stuck.

“Spring is not easy.”

You learnt it at 20.

An elegant doctor taught you, who smiled through her glasses

as she offered you droplets of Xanax

twenty at a time

once every year

a magic potion to make the season turn.

Though as you toss and turn and curl

you still like

that the daffodils laugh

as you wonder if it’s soon to give up tights,

eager to label your discomfort

a wardrobe malfunction

to shed a layer,

and drag your naked thighs

towards the merciful relief of summer’s sweat.