What’s bracing about spring is that by the time it dawns, it is never like you remember.
If the musky redolence of fresh wet air seems merely some souvenir of lustiness,
Then, besides the dusk-revealed cycling moon, you see that another dusk looms, beyond your reckoning
Past which you’ll cycle among kin, lovers, and friends as they grow old, until they die.
by Dave Conlin Read