So when does spring finish? It finishes when you stop asking. It finishes when you surrender to the fact that endings are not doors slamming shut but rivers widening into seas — imperceptibly, inevitably, and without ceremony.
Spring finishes now, if you decide it does. Or it finishes never, if you still have the courage to call the first firefly a petal of light returning. when does spring finish
Perhaps spring finishes the moment you stop noticing the green returning. When the first cherry blossoms have fallen and you no longer turn your head toward the scent of wet earth after rain. It finishes when the morning chill becomes a relic you remember fondly rather than a touch on your skin. In the suddenness of an afternoon when the sun feels not warm, but insistent — when the shade is no longer a choice, but a necessity. So when does spring finish
It finishes when the windows stay open all night, and you stop listening for rain. When the book you left on the porch has its spine bleached by a sun that no longer asks permission. When the word “late” begins to describe the hour of dusk, not the arrival of a storm. When the wind forgets its softness and remembers only the muscle of a gust. Spring finishes now, if you decide it does