A hypothesis; a feeling more
than a calendar’s date, a reason
greater than a season. Unlike
days, more difficult to count. A
factually questionable equation
defined by our Sun’s trajectory,
velocity and implied incline of
this ever-evolving earth, with an
unspoken oath to genteel climes.
Spring hopes eternal.
Mathematically speaking it
cannot be calculated; accounting
for the months. Springtime arrives
when it feels like it, shifts daily,
as with the weather, whether
you are prepared. Or not.
Was it Sunday or Saturday’s
heat with soft subtle humidity?
Unexpected as it is prophesied.
Indefinite. So like an emotion or
scent of a sight. Look quickly.
I felt it, as you would have
had you been there. Were you?
A question of the season.