"All writing is travel writing, it just depends which direction you're going."
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
The hushed news of winter's end will not reach the earth in time to speed the patterns of change. Damp and capable, the first days of spring chill the ground, the birds and the heart. The lustful frost returns, unexpected, tricking the panicky bud who peeps through plotted soil, skinny wholehearted, and fearless, until the sun eases out again with its adorned messages as bright and sweet as ripe honeycomb.
Originally published in Slow Trains Literary Journal, 6.2