Spring finishes now, if you decide it does. Or it finishes never, if you still have the courage to call the first firefly a petal of light returning.
But here is the deeper truth: Spring does not finish — it becomes. Its green deepens into the slow rust of August. Its tentative warmth builds into the fever of July. Its hope does not die; it ripens into something heavier, less forgiving, but still alive. You cannot draw a line between the bud and the fruit, between the first warm rain and the drought, between the hand held in April and the hand let go in June. when does spring finish
It finishes when the windows stay open all night, and you stop listening for rain. When the book you left on the porch has its spine bleached by a sun that no longer asks permission. When the word “late” begins to describe the hour of dusk, not the arrival of a storm. When the wind forgets its softness and remembers only the muscle of a gust. Spring finishes now, if you decide it does
When Does Spring Finish? Subtitle: On the Threshold of Bloom and Ember Its green deepens into the slow rust of August