Only time can pry you open, rain in April, skirt-wearing weather. Standing one-stalked with pale legs, the audacity to be yellow in March. Each year, new bulbs rise through blades of grass. In May, we will wilt— what makes spring is the moment of intersection between budding and dying, which is fleeting but certain— that the Earth will tilt on its axis just so, that one kiss will someday be our last. It always comes, I always come, to wait.