Researching dreams to dream, conceiving impossible, like immaculata, Les Brown and Doris Day serenade that I won't be satisfied until I break their hearts. Or maybe the day job won't quit until it dies by virtue of killing me. Isn't that just like the average parasitic recessional job?
And in this resurgence of creative gift, a gift stored away like a wool sweater, I study verdant buds on the sleepy trees, buds daring to emerge despite the the huffing and puffing of this past winter. So courageous are these baby greens amidst spring's falling snowflakes.
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