The temperature rose above freezing today, signaling the return of my three least favorite seasons, and spring is the worst of them.

In winter, my finely polished misanthropy is a razor-edged scythe. Ice and snow and cold hone its edge so well that it cuts with nearly no effort, severing the people that I meet from their optimism. In spring, though, the edge dulls and pits and rusts in the rising warmth and caustic sunlight.

I know what’s in store and I dread it. Before long, my heart will begin to lighten. I may find myself humming or, much worse, singing with newly returned migrant birds, my rime scythe standing forgotten in a dark corner of my mind. There will be new growth in the lawn, the garden, the trees. I will use mower, shears and loppers, but the scythe will remain abandoned.

When fall returns, I will need to find and repair the scythe for its winter resurrection. Its edge will need resharpening, never an easy task. Some years, I wonder whether I’ll be able to restore it at all.