If I was to agree with Robert Frost‘s words that
“spring is the mischief in me,”
I would have to abandon all other seasons from this honor.
I am not sure if I am ready to do that.
I know winter is not the mischief in me for
winter has little hope.
I deem hope necessary.
Winter is the dry spell,
the hibernation of imagination.

A look at autumn
from the mischievous point of view
is offensive.
Autumn is calm and comforting.
It is not mischievous.
Fall is not a crafty fox.
It is a puppy caught chewing a mitten.

Summer, on the other hand,
is a thing to hold on to.
Summer is the smell of green and
the brightness of daisies.
Summer is the breath to be held,
sucked in, inhaled and
never to be let go. Summer is
daring and eccentric.
Summer is Paris Hilton sunglasses
and loud motorcycles.

Spring is hope.
Alexander Pope says that
“hope springs eternal in the human breast.”
He is right. Hope is springy--
even in Vermont with snow banks
towering above my head on April 1st.
There is hope in the mud and
the sight of the first Robin, (March 27).
There is hope that the first daffodils will
bloom the week of May 15.
Spring offers me the chance to open
the window at night,
letting my sleepy soul escape in dreamy wafts
out into the dark world.
There is hope in that!
There is mischief in that!