Short but lovely spring

I live in Arizona, and summer is the predominant season here. It lasts from about April-November, and we may get a brief but warm winter and short but lovely spring. In the summer, it's not just hot, it's usually over 100 degrees with dry heat.  Don't let people fool you, it's still bloody hot. I grew up in the Southeastern US, so I'm more used to a more humid heat, but both will make you sweat a lot. Dry heat just means the sun is way more intense. So if you have fair skin like I do, you will sunburn if you are outside for any length of time. You pretty much have to either travel with water everywhere or at least have water in your car. Getting away from my original point, I love spring. I love watching the irises and roses bloom and here in Arizona, it is 70 to 80 degrees F (21-26 C) usually with a breeze. The nights and early mornings are cool. Spring training baseball games are going on. They have just finished here and the temperatures are already starting to climb towards 100. 

I love the visual imagery of this poem. It reminds me of what spring should be like, and what an English spring is like, which I haven't seen in a really long time. 

Magdalen Walks

by Oscar Wilde

The little white clouds are racing over the sky, 

   And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March, 

   The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch

Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.

A delicate odour is bourne on the wings of the morning breeze, 

     The odour of deep wet grass, and the brown new-furrowed earth, 

     The birds are singing for joy of the Spring's glad birth, 

Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees. 

And all the woods are alive with the murmur and the sound of Spring, 

     And the rose-bud breaks into pink on the climbing briar, 

     And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire

Girdled round with a belt of an amethyst ring. 

And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love

     Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green, 

     And the gloom of the wych-elm's hollow is lit with the iris sheet

Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove. 

See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there, 

     Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew,

     And flashing adown the river, a flame of blue!

The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air.