In spring, we walk to class in miniskirts; we’ve got our books in hand.

Everything seems swell outside, the weather at our command.

Runners jogging in the park, the warmth remains when it turns dark,

and every decision appears to be a complete, brand-new start.

In spring, the little things matter more; the birds don’t seem to fly, they soar.

In spring, the big things matter less — all things just change, even our dress.

In spring, life itself appears a breeze, your problems just a tiny sneeze.

In spring, everything is arbitrary — only elections are primary.

In winter, the cold comes rushing in, reminiscent of chaos and sin.

In winter, white envelopes us, and four o’clock’s already dusk.

In winter, the weight of the world rests upon our backs — sorrow lets our motives slack.

In winter, our biggest want is sleep; inspiration does not go too deep.

In winter, knee-length parkas are the only trend.

Visions of beaches dance in our heads while we’re stuck sitting in ski dens.

And every little headache is building up, exactly like the snow.

The coldness freezes problems in place, disabling ways to grow.  

The transition between spring and winter is a funny thing,

with allergies, and bees and flowers, children racing toward the swings.

Rolled up jeans, sunglasses and umbrellas all form an awkward phase,

and when asked what time of year it is, we don’t know the right phrase.

The change is a bizarre bend from hard work to play,

but the strangest thing of all?

Sometimes it only lasts a day.