Spring is always too early. Almost no one thinks so, certainly not homeless people, not insects or woodland creatures. Even people who live in heated homes look out their glass windows and sigh heavily about the lack of sunshine. But for me, spring comes too soon, without fail. The temperatures rise without regard for what I wish; the mercury of my emotions falls in a flawless mirror.
My eyes feast on the colors of springtime blossoms, but my heart sinks with their coming, for hot, sticky summer lurks just beyond the horizon, waiting to swallow me up in misery.
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