allthenightlong

Fields lie brown and bare trees bend as half-hearted fronts skirt the mountains in snow yet leave the grass untouched. It is too soon for spring--the fickle weather teases and promises what should not be yet, and the birds murmur softly in the bushes, confused whether to court or wait until more storms pass. In life, all that is fallow, that rests while we shore up our resources, our energy, echoes the uncertain promise of the future. Can we brave the weather, are we strong enough to build in spite of how different from past seasons things are? Yet impossible as it seems, a funny lightness blows through the barren pastures of our dreams, sett