She was Spring to me for a season,
or for a second of a season
or I said she was, at least.
These things seem transient,
in youth.
In the Spring of our youth.

For a moment,
she seemed so important,
an image of her seared so strongly into my skull,
it hasn’t left, scores of years later.
Her name takes me longer to recall…

I’ve got it.
It just takes a bit.
Gosh, she was pretty.

She was Spring.