An Ode to Spring

The ice shelf at the end of my driveway has finally melted,

while the snow in the yard melts into puddles and rivers of mud,

It re-freezes into sheets of invisible treachery every night.

The poop in the yard has degraded into stinky brown mush,

Carving out hollows of melt around itself in the remaining snow,

Impossible to pick out.

The dogs track mud into the house in gleeful quantities as

They dig into the newly unfrozen soil with abandon.

There is grit everywhere, even my bed.

Explain that to me, dog.

Maybe sometime this year the temperatures will rise enough

for me to leave my winter coat at home.

Nah.

Spring is a paradox

It never arrives and it is endless.

Spring is all there ever is or was or will be.

I hate it.