He doesn't last long
like the flowers in my garden
that I try to grow every year.

He doesn't stay long
just washes down the storm drain
with the worms in the rain.

He is agonizing,
can't walk away fast enough
like the stormy clouds that interupt my day.

Very little memories,
and ones kept aren't pleasant.
And only recalled occasionally when staring out the window of a ****** day.

He,
They are Spring.
My least favorite.