Such a delight!

Next to my front porch, four-petelled forsythia blossoms, trumpet-like, hang suspended from arching branches, tossed by trickster winds.



Like the sun, their yellow encodes itself upon our cells and shakes us free from winter’s bondage of graying-browns shivering our worlds.

It laughs in the face of winter’s illusory enslavement of our spirits.

This is real comedy.