The beginnings of a dark cloud of worry about the virus moved in to share space with the more festive anticipation of amaryllis blooms.
The sky is a stoic blue, hard as a marble, with little wimpy clouds that carry nothing more than a few regrets from a dying winter. We’re here, right on the precipice of a season.
To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
On the calendar we see the bold square, marking the number 21 in March, marking our hope, our deep breath— 21, our emerald prolepsis, our brain’s fast synapse between withdrawal … Continue reading