Hello friends. I hope this day finds you well and looking toward the nicer weather. You all mean a lot to me and so I'd like to share a favourite poem, hoping to bring a smile to your face. God bless, a.t. Here is Lynne McMahon's poem "Spring." We begin now our interior life, the life of the mind, I'm tempted to say, but really we're driven in by the flowering plum, the lilac, the early April greens sending their brilliant toxins to flame and stagger over the delicate sclera of the eye, to sheet like tearing silk down the throat swanned in an arch to clear a breathing space, now that breathing's a conscious thing. We swell and dwindle on a histamine tide, the bone bowl around a sea that hesitates to finally overtake us, though it drives out or subsumes nearly everything, obligations and errands, the small spiny creatures of the day. Not that we're ungrateful for these walled-in glooms and filtering machines, the pharmacopeia of everyday life that allows us some measure of perception. We can see in fact that our debility is minor, perhaps even a privilege, a god's eye warding off tubercles and metastasis- a seasonal and temporary strangulation whose recurrence we can count on as on little else in the world, a little luck choking and stinging its way into our heads where the welcome lies disguised as tears.