I too am troubled
by the Spring. I sit under
the tortured pine whose
needles sparkle, whose
bent trunk throws sharp shadows on
the new grass. Small waves
crash softly at my
feet. To doubt one’s part in it
all—is part of Spring.
I too am troubled
by the Spring. I sit under
the tortured pine whose
needles sparkle, whose
bent trunk throws sharp shadows on
the new grass. Small waves
crash softly at my
feet. To doubt one’s part in it
all—is part of Spring.