Soaking in swirling waters in the tub this morning I found myself accompanied and cuddled by an indulging unreality.  One that flashed maya down my spine and  offered samsara as a tit to suck.  It knew my weaknesses so finely, too finely, this notion of consummate romance.  Who was she?  It doesn’t matter.  I had captured her essential beauty eidectically in my inner eye, and i…oh shit, this isn’t what I wanted to write about.   Let me try again:

It’s Springtime across America.  Irrepressibly so.  I took my “Death to Winter’ run in the cemetery yesterday making it official.  Henceforth, any snow storms shall be considered “freak spring snow’.

And since it’s Spring, I’d like to share my favorite springtime poem, by e.e.cummings, with you all:

when faces called flowers float out of the ground
and breathing is wishing and wishing is having-
but keeping is downward and doubting and never
-it's april(yes,april;my darling)it's spring!
yes the pretty birds frolic as spry as can fly
yes the little fish gambol as glad as can be
(yes the mountains are dancing together)

when every leaf opens without any sound
and wishing is having and having is giving-
but keeping is doting and nothing and nonsense
-alive;we're alive,dear:it's(kiss me now)spring!
now the pretty birds hover so she and so he
now the little fish quiver so you and so i
(now the mountains are dancing, the mountains)

when more than was lost has been found has been found
and having is giving and giving is living-
but keeping is darkness and winter and cringing
-it's spring(all our night becomes day)o,it's spring!
all the pretty birds dive to the heart of the sky
all the little fish climb through the mind of the sea
(all the mountains are dancing;are dancing)

—e.e.cummings

And if even the mountains are dancing, shouldn’t we too?