Spring is under the snow, improbable as lizards and flowers here in the north. Spring with its tonic sub-categories, the green that appears like smoke in the branches, the trunks of trees silver as knives in a pawnshop, even the breath is renewed, a reconciliation with the air itself. I think this year I will stay silent long into May. Enter the garden like an old drunken captain who long ago was expelled from the sphere of his senses but who listens anyway for the stray music.
Planet of the Blind 