Edit 2: Some thoughts on spring

[fuzzyllama1]

Spring returns dressed in cherry blossoms and melts into the waiting laps of lovers embracing.
We run gentle fingers across the budding magnolias braided into his willow hair, falling into his eyes, brushing blushed cheeks in the wet smelling wind. - I'm liking the mixed gender descriptions of Spring. I've always pictured him as a more feminine character. I also like how you incorporate all the senses in your imagery.
“Won’t you stay?” you ask, I whisper. - Are you and Spring talking in unison here or is it another person? If it's Spring, I think "He" should be used instead of the informal "you". The whisper to me shows that you seem to know the answer to your question already.
He caresses our lingering grasp with genteel grass. - I like how he doesn't respond with words. It is a gentle way to respond to such a question and that makes the use of genteel to describe the grass even more brilliant.

Spring lingered in the magnolia-fluttered grass until summer stormed in with windswept hair and wild eyes.
I could barely stand it. All that intense beauty gazing at me. So I sweat and I stuttered, until she left. She moved on.  - Seems like we spent too short of a time with Summer. Summers are usually long, hot, and arduous. I think maybe you could add more description/imagery of Summer's unbearable beauty. 
But I am left in the aftermath of her whirlwind hurricane, panting, parched, exhausted.
The sun remains, though, and the grass still greens, and the river's still blue.
I drown the canal under rain-grey skies.

Spring eludes me, and I miss them. - Confused on "them" as the pronoun here. Spring and Summer?
Through snowmen, down ski hills, past grey-white-coloured highways. By yellow spots in snow banks left by pomeranians and dachshunds and hobos, too, at the empty soup kitchen door. - Didn't think it was possible to find the image of hobos peeing in snow to be beautiful. Thank you for proving me wrong.
Dried magnolia petals crumble in my notebooks. Winter howls. Even my bones cry.
Each morning, I wake up straining for tinkle melting sounds and the birds who will flock to see my spring, then sleep another day. "Tinkle melting sounds" doesn't please my ear, especially followed by straining. I'm left somewhat unsatisfied here. I think the ending can be extended and/or improved.


Never happy with my attempts at prose poetry. Thanks for any critique!

The first stanza I find extraordinary. Summer and Winter I think need to be revisited. Overall this is lovely. I am a sucker for poetry about the seasons.