Because how slow go the dog days of summer, how molasses stuck the dying days of fall, how lumbering the trudge of wet winter, so why not how lasting the verdure April? Haven’t we earned it? Haven’t we suffered enough? Mother Nature’s entitlement plan, yes? No. Pleasantness is always on loan from hardship. Borrowed in March quadruply compounded come June. Ether, in this regard, you’ve got it good. I imagine in the Nothingworld seasons are only discernible by the preponderance of merchandise being bought and sold over the optics and waves--each quarter measured in seasonal wares. Swimsuits, Rubber masks, ear muffs, and egg coloring kits, respectively.
On terra firma, Ether, we learn our lessons sweating, shivering, and sodden. Gritting and grinding. Fitful and weary. And then comes spring. And life is here to stay. The birds won't go away. So when we dance in May, let all the children play.
Because what else is there to do? Worry over the pavement that soon will scorch our bare feet? Fretfully while the hours until ghouls and goblins prowl? Bewail the distant dearth of greenness?
Nah. Spring is here to stay. If only for today.