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When I was young, I couldn’t wait for Summer.
School was over;
No more reports,
No more homework.
I turned over another year.
It was hot outside.
We children learned to listen for the sounding bell
of the ice cream truck.
We chased after the smoke of the mosquito trucks,
as they exited our neighborhood streets.
We rode our bikes and went fishin’ down
the river.
On the weekends we all piled into the big white
station wagon with the fold down red vinyl
bench seats to go to the beach.
Summer was the best season of the whole year,
when I was young.
Now I am several decades older,
not so sure about the wiser.
I’ve discovered that I like the slower pace of the season
that comes right in front of the
fast-paced, super-heated summer.
I like the quiet slowness that characterizes spring.
I like the anticipation of seeing the first Robin;
the first blade of green grass;
the first shy, purple violet.
Of hearing the mourning doves,
cooing in the cool mornings.
Of seeing the pale winter sky
transpose into the bright blues
of a spring-time morning.
Spring always feels like a season of hope and new life.
Everyday there are more birds singing
and feeding their young ones.
The trees unfurl their leaves
into many shades of green.
The flowers burst into bright reds,
sun-filled yellows and deep-toned purples.
Yet, it is also the season of rain-filled days and cold nights.
But the rain is needed to bring the seeds,
bulbs and saplings to life.
As for the cold nights —
I’ll always prefer snuggling to sweating.
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