a late April afternoon

The light green of the pre-leaves on the trees outside my window is wistful against the spring gustiness of the Sunday afternoon.

Perhaps it's because I want it to be warmer and sunnier, more forceful weather, which is when I emerge after a winter's worth of browns and blossom into my own.

Yes, the light green is lovelier than the park bench paint of summer's suburban grassiness, but it is far more fragile. And the pastel petal pinks of small trees and shrubs is exquisite up close, but not lasting.

Where is the bold chrome yellow of Long Island's forsythia?

Boulder spring is but a melting ache between rough seasons.