Weep, Spring

I am dead to the smell of spring, I remember only an echo of it from the murk of childhood's end; yet I know her taste.
The taste of spring in my mouth is a knife, cold; against my tongue, it is nature, and she is angry. She weeps with the cottonwood, with me as I mourn another ghost, another perfect tragedy committed on her soil. Spring brings the renewal, change, brings me full circle to a bittersweet and barren young womb, spring brings the jealous greenery frothing forth from snow-fed soil.
Winter gave me firm  resolve, and I mourn the snow as it melts from the mountain; I weep with the  snow melt running down her sheer face as tears pour down the curve of mine. I weep as that will crumbles, tumbles, down ravines and waterfalls, to nourish the valley, shaping the mountain through time as things flourish and die.
I weep a fervent mix of sorrow and joy, because my soul is unsettled. I cannot settle in joy, the sweetness fetid against my tongue, nor can I lie and wallow in the fetor of sorrow.
Nature weeps her gentle cottonwood tears against crisp morning grass, slick with dew in the sweat of her effort; and I weep ink into the sea for a ghost in my heart, a single perfect sin committed against the heart of the cottonwood mistress.
I am dead to the smell of spring, but take me where the lilacs grow. Take me to the pungent and tiny bloom, take too my sight so I can feel spring against my fingertips, immersed blind in fragrance I cannot savor. I can feel her against my tongue and in the roof of my mouth, soil and soul fetid with life. Rank and wet, the green clay is dark with decay as things flourish and die, fed by the will of winter to be fed to the rest.
Winter, the frigid martyr, surrendering herself to spring, just for Summer to ravage her in the end like wildfire with the careless hand of man.
Yet the seasons fall and change; Autumn calms Summer's rage with  healing and bruised tones. Autumn, the blind twin to spring, to love and never meet. Autumn the butcher, autumn the usher to the iron will of Winter. Autumn and the cottonwood mistress of spring has long stopped weeping, reaching for Winter and the snow to heal her wounds.
So weep, Spring, for you are fleeting and alive. Weep as you nurse the melting will of winter, your snow melt mother.
Weep when Summer sinks the sun in like fangs to dry your tears and drain your life away until Autumn steps in with Winter close behind.
Weep in the fetor of life and drink in the dark dead things of your soil.