The snow hangs on--shrunken, thin, crusted, corrugated, it hangs on.  The sun shines on it, but the sun's cold. The wind is cold. The sky is pale ice-blue. March hangs on. Is every winter this long? Or am I so tired of the cold, of the world like a cold, coarse coat I have to put on every day? It's certain that I'm tired of the cold. But it's just as certain that winter's time is not over.

Who can blame it for not wanting to disappear? For digging its fingers deeper into time?

There are tiny buds on the Japanese Red Maple. There are green noses poked up through the hard-packed earth.  There are glimpses of spring in the light.  Tired, I look for signs--a crumb is better than nothing. We often live on crumbs that--so deeply hungry as we are--suffice. And who's to say that one ort more than nothing isn't a feast?

Allan DiBiase
3/20/2013 12:36:38 am

It is challenging, but rewarding, to see all the seasons co-existing as an integrated whole. We tend to notice the dominant aspect and there are very practical reasons for this. But the other aspects are always there.

3/20/2013 01:36:17 am

The picture is absolutely appropriate to the prose. A harbinger of things to come


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