Spring—through
morning mist
what mountains there?
This morning, as we drove out for our swim at the local pool, I wondered if I was seeing snow on the lower slope of the mountain. But no. It was just heavy fog. A season of paradoxes. My granddaughter told me yesterday via Skype that she’d built a snowman a week ago at Banff when she’d gone with her family for her dad’s math conference at BIRS. And she was excited to report that snow fell overnight on Saturday too!
After our swim, the mist lifted, the clouds disappeared, and the afternoon was fine and blue. I planted onions and more peas (because something is getting to the sprouts, even though they are surrounded by chicken wire). And the primula, so yellow and fresh, among the old twigs! Like a poem by Basho.
See: surviving suns
visiting the ancestral
grave…
Bearded, with bent canes.
...Theresa Kishkan 