Take This.

Do we feel lovely and guilty with the end of winter, when it comes?
Doesn't the snow have some right to be, to be missed, to be admired?
And when it is gone, is it not just reconstituted as rain, dumped elsewhere, over there?
Take this.
A hand extends and a soft potato sits in its palm, a close fit.
It looks well.
It feels well.
There are such things as potentials.
There are always water molecules in the air.
We have a mission, we sing that the thaw is taking place.
We find each other, smiling, running down the sidewalk for fun.


"We only had the beach for two days. The rain- the sand was wet. The good news: we got birds."
-The Beaches of Agnes