> jumping into life.

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Today there were tulips and crocuses blooming alongside the path, and the lake lapping dark and softly on the driftwood shore. Winter is harsh, but spring harsher still; she eats you alive and then paints the world with your blood. Good nitrogen in blood. It brings the flowers up faster. My robinbreast is beating wildly these days. I am aching for the monastery and bursting with joy. I need to get out of the city - even this city, which certainly does not qualify.

Rushing down the hillside yesterday, just enough snow to carry the sled, bigbudded saplings whipping past on either side and the good balsam smell, sun strong and shadows clear, no clouds, no thoughts, just the crest of the season and his body streaking down the trail in front of me, just his hollering and mine joining together, all fire and wing.

So someone else feels spring's harshness! A beautiful post, K. I wanted it to go on and on.

Reminds me of the opening of "The Wasteland," which similarly moves from "the cruelest month" to downhill sledding in just a few lines. Was this a conscious echo on your part?

Beth - thanks. I loved yours as well.

Dave - I did remember the phrase "cruelest month" as I wrote, but as it was March on my mind and not April, I promptly forgot it. And I must confess that while Prufrock changed the face of poetry for me, I haven't studied the Wasteland enough to echo it consciously.

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