But Summer? Summer doesn’t walk—he bursts through the door Spring left ajar. You’ll feel him before you see him: a weight on your shoulders, a brightness behind your eyelids, a sudden itch to run barefoot. Spring steps aside with a patient smile. She knows her brother is not rude, just eager. He carries the sun like a drum, beating it until the days grow long and drowsy.
One year, though, they met at the edge of a meadow—pink petals still clinging to the branches, heat already shimmering off the grass. Spring said, “You’re early.” Summer shrugged, golden and guilty. “Couldn’t wait. The strawberries were dreaming of me.” when is spring and summer
The old folks say that winter, before it trudges off to its icy den, always leaves a key behind—a tiny, cold key that fits no lock you’ve ever seen. Spring finds it first. She tucks it into the hollow of an oak, and overnight, the bark remembers how to soften. That’s her way: slow, green, full of whispers. But Summer