Note to recorder:
Natural & narative speed please
Today I witnessed death defeated by a bold crocus. Undaunted by winter's white shroud, it rose renewed to merge in gold with the sun. Nature is recovering, and spring is the proof. Each year she promises return but then lies ill so long that hope misgives us. Revived, we can forgive a penurious god!
Rebirth requires commemoration. Though I sing life instinctively, as the robin, I never jotted hours, I live too quietly for volumes. No stage would play my drama. But thought is its own event and defines the day. Recording one preserves the other, like the flower pressed between pages at its fullest glory. So let this be my letter to myself that needs no response.
