In the opening steps to our adversarial tango, Spring arrives, and I mask up yet again, defiantly stomping mud-caked feet, theatrically gesturing at the dark, bare trees surrounding us. Spring nods to the once verdant veggie garden; I toss a glance to the mini rhododendrons, whose bright blooms are annually smote by a vicious late freeze.

Spring’s sunny smile suggests a ride by the garden center, where trays of brilliant beautifies await a new home. A contemptuous laugh is my “fool me eighteen times, shame on me” reply as we embrace and spin away.

Talk to me again in June, oh alleged happiest of seasons. Until then, I’m piling leaves over peeping peonies, cracking my office window at night hoping the native azalea buds below won’t freeze again, and no, the Georgia Mountains have not forgotten the seventeen-degree Sunday morning mid-April several years ago. A season without many blueberries, strawberries, or apples—just dead leaves in the top third of our trees.

Pay no attention, Spring, to the gorgeous baby hydrangea in the garage window. He’s in protective custody until you’ve drifted out of my hemisphere. Local gardeners say we’re safe to plant after Mother’s Day, but despite all its charms, I wouldn’t trust Spring in these mountains with a WalMart petunia.

For now, Nasalcrom and I are heading out to use your enticing temps and gentle breezes to clean windows and to take out frustrations on honeysuckle vines. Dance on outta here, Sunny, I’m not falling on my Back Sacada this year.