There’s something beautiful within the drizzliest of late winter days. The willows and forsythias are yellowing; the maples wetly red; cottonwoods, their long whips bumpy with waiting leaves; and lilac buds swell to bursting. It is promise of color and life transforming the canvas of grey to something interesting; something about to happen. Spring.
Flash Fiction Fridays
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- A Death in The Family
- At Swim Two Birds
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- POETRY
- provinces of night
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- St. Augustine
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- The Unbearable Lightness of Being
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"I will breakfast from the cupboard where uneaten dreams are kept"
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"I foresee the successful future of a very mediocre society."
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The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
My crocus tops poked through the snow and slush the other day. Such a glorious welcome sight.
Such a juicy description. I could just eat it.
For some reason, Anne, I thought you were a Southern gal. Crocuses (crocusi?) and tulips are things I do not have here; all fifteen years of bulbs I thought I was planting for blooming turned into mole feed.
Loretta, you’ve been inspiring me lately with your own writing of the wonders of spring so I’m slowly looking back into my backyard for soul-feeding.