The chartreuse lace of Spring drops her veil onto the trees.
Soon I will be covered by Her.
The wind has blown me all about, never ceasing it seems, this March.
Yet
Soon, I will be covered by Her.
When the fear of unknown people, the noise of dust and traffic is too much;
I can find a quiet spot in a little forest remnant hidden in the city.
A marginal space. A forgotten space
No longer considered useful.
A little piece of peace.
A refuge, a quiet spot where rain collects. Sweet birds, even a frog.
And then, refreshed, I emerge to hawk the paper, and talk about refuge for all.