Spring is a lamb shorn far too soon,
Ready too early for the warmer days.
We wrap our tender plants in fleece,
Encase our bodies in woollen layers
Swathed in scarves, snug in gloves
We stand against the blast of wind.
Spring is a lad blowing hot and then cold,
An immature suitor unsure of his charms:
Today the strong and silent type,
Macho and frosty as a December night.
Tomorrow he’s the Latin lover,
All passion and heat and sunlit smiles.
Spring is a puzzle that challenges each year,
Demanding that we solve it this time.
We dress for the worst, hope for the best,
And just when we think we have it sussed,
It changes the rules and snows in May.