Lull

It was not my question to answer, of course, but you know how I get. I spout obnoxious metaphors even when they have no business existing.

Spring has always devastated me. It is a season bloated with ideas of hope and rebirth, but I've yet to experience either. The New England Spring is a horrid coquette, at least in the beginning. She showers us with warmth and vibrancy only to revoke them the following day. Spring flutters across closed eyelids and just as we begin to thaw, she giggles and retreats to her corner. We become consumed with the idea of her permanency, but she is as fleeting as a dishonest lover.