Why I Hate Spring

Spring. Spring is here. Spring has sprung. Everybody loves spring, right? Not me. I don't like spring. Now, don't get me wrong. I like late spring. But to get to late spring, you have to go through early spring, and I much prefer the snow to early spring.

Early spring is hideous. The earth at the beginning of March is much like a zombie rising from the grave for the first time. There are splotches of snow everywhere that have yet to melt. Those are a saving grace, for they hide the ugliness beneath.

The ground, freshly thawed, is one big mud puddle. You can't step outside without getting your shoes covered with the brown, caked-on goop. And you have no idea what's in it. It's disgusting. The grass is still brown, bare, and sopping wet. No running through the park just yet.

The trees. Oh the poor trees. They're completely naked in early spring. No leaves to clothe them and no snow to hide their bare skin. They just stand there, dead to the eye, waiting for the weather to warm up and their leaves to spring forth.

No flowers are about in early spring. The animals who have gone south for the winter have yet to return. Death remains at the forefront, only now it is no longer covered by the beautiful snow. It is laid bare for all to see. The dead flowers droop sadly in their baskets. The dead leaves rot on the wet earth.

The piles of snow, once lovely behemoths standing guard over the destitute landscape now melt, revealing the ugly dirt clumps they had kept hidden for months. They melt, revealing their true nature. Their liquid flows to the rivers, seeps into the already saturated ground. They seek to cause havoc, to destroy houses placed too close to the rivers, to cover as-yet-unseeded fields. Having been abused by snow plows all winter, the snow takes its revenge on humanity.

But early spring does not last. There is hope yet. Eventually the earth will rise from its decrepit state. The trees will clothe themselves in the most beautiful attire. The lands will dry, sometimes too much. Dead flowers will pass from sight, to fertilize the new growth coming behind them. The world will grow, flourish, until August, when it begins to die again in a crown of gold, red, and orange. Then it will hide its shame once more beneath the snows, until next spring, when its true hideousness again steps forth.