by Linda Armstrong

Created on: April 11, 2008

Pale light creeps around
the edges of insulated
green drapes.
My husband is still sleeping
as I step from bed
into pants that stretch
enough to forgive anything.

I start my Honda and
head down the hill,
past the spot where
quail will run next month.
Across the valley,
yesterday's snow
glows on the mesa.

In the gym's parking lot,
I see some trees
that burst into early
blossom a few days ago.
Their tender
flowers have withered,
lost to a killing frost.
Beside them,
other trees are just
beginning to bloom.

Back at home,
I turn on my computer
and open
myself to the world.
Later, I will
eat dinner with friends,
listen to chamber
music on sweet horns,
close the green drapes,
and crawl into a warm spot
beside my husband.

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