When the stars fail you, sit under a tree and it will tell you everything. What’s old is always new again, the crocus corm
Cold I cocoon myself encasing the stringy green hammock around me, camouflaged to sleep. Waking to tittering bushtits flitting through the leaves, their jittery
& why shouldn’t joy beget more joy in the strange and cold streets where water has thieved the leaves and pushed them into storm