Description
Spring burns, stokes the fire, is never all of one without the other. palimpsest that defines any freshness we feel. because we've lost, we know what it means to have and hold and cherish.
whether it is these first candlesticks of hosta that are pushing through the absolute muck of a winter lost of its snowy wrappings, purple and scarlet fingers reaching to the sun they've heard is rolling up its sleeves and looking out again.
or that mythological bird whose wings are shed of feathers and which is reborn of its own demise, from destruction there comes another side. is such a figure useful at this time, can it be trusted, does it need to be?
whether as yourself, out of sleeping bags and twin-sized cocoons, sloughing something from what you'd been before, feeling the air prickling healthily again on your skin. spring chicken, gangling fawn, gawkish, loving, leap of faith into a world which might at any moment feel either wondrous or envenomed. may wonder sustain us, venom propel us.
