Soylent Spring

Pardon me while I cough--I'm coming down with Pollen Lung. It feels as though I've been breathing in powdered snot--at least, that's what spews out when I sneeze; a cloud of yellow-green. It's either that or an actual mimosa has taken root in my bronchial sacs; I swear I feel the tender yellow-green fronds tickling my alveoli. The car is yellow. The window sills are yellow. The kitchen counters under the open window are yellow. The cat, for god's sake, is yellow.

Enough already with the yellow. Enough with the tree sex, enough with the pine spooge coating the patio table, the grill, the purple blossoms of the hanging basket, the bird bath, the lenses of my rose colored glasses. A charming dusting of snow, it ain't. You can't mash it into a ball and toss it at someone. You can't use it as an excuse to not come in to work. You can leave footprints in it, but forget about making angels; you'd just ruin your clothes. And the color doesn't go with anything.

And this heat. What, was Mother Nature so pent up from winter that she just overshot spring--sprang right past it, as it were-- straight into high summer? What the heck is up with that? Apologies to T.S., but isn't April the beautifulest month? Our well-deserved reward for putting up with a (long) season of leafless trees and lengthening nights and relentless rain and gloom? April is supposed to bring us dogwoods and wisteria and peepers--not this soylent spring. It's enough to make me weep--though I shudder to imagine the color of my tears.