I grow impatient for flowers in the garden in the parks and I think I might buy some at the grocery store to tide me over. I go into my archives where there are flashes of delight recalling springs past attention paid and I remember wisdom in the waiting.
A blush appears at the top of the eastern hills. I watch it grow in brilliance, peak, then fade. Now there is no indication that moments ago the sky over the hills was bright pink. I would have missed the magic if I had run for my camera. Sometimes the wisest thing one can do as