After living fifty four years one would expect to no longer be surprised to see spring arriving once again. Every winter I am shocked by the bleak landscape of death and every spring I am surprised at the vivid return of life. It is starting to happen. First the willows, then the dog woods and poplars will come out.
My bleak slippery, mud hole will become a lush, soft pasture. My stiff, sore body will become limber again. My shaggy looking scrub ponies will once again become the sleek horses of the nobility of at least four, and maybe five continents, as they have been over the past 1000 years.
Soon there will be no need to seek out beauty. It will come running to me every day.
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