Every year I find myself guest-starring
in the romantic subplot of Kentucky’s spastic
weather, more like a soap opera than a meteorologist’s report,
and yet as many times as I’ve relived
this same old narrative, I always manage to forget the Ohio River Valley
is as stubborn as I am, and she doesn’t like to settle.

For a few heavenly days each March, we forget the snowflakes that tinged
our yards white just the week before and revel
in the whisper of warmer climes as Spring
bends to peck the Ohio River Valley’s outstretched
palm.  Just as I begin to unearth linen
shorts and floral sundresses, she swats
his lips away and turns her back to Spring.  Just like that we’re back to gloomy
skies, frostbitten windshields, and starchy
overcoats.

This rejection only stokes Spring’s infatuation.
He can’t resist his coquette’s goldenrod-
plaited locks, her eyes that sparkle like gemstones in silty
riverbeds.  He tempts her with bouquets of early-blooming daffodils,
chickadees’ chirping melodies, and sunshine-
fermented wine, but she thanks him only with sultry
winks.  She sashays away, leaving us with chilly May
mornings.

After months of this flighty dalliance,
warm breezes tickle leafy boughs, and the last memories of winter
float away.  For three days straight, storybook skies
have coaxed me from my covers, the kind of days in which chipmunks frolic
among flower beds and children splash in glittering
pools. Spring settles in the Ohio River Valley.  As they kiss,
the credits roll, and we bask in balmy June noons,
their love’s consummation our summer vacation.