March 20, 2004
Weak coffee and a cold wind – spring stumbles towards New York in fits and starts and chilly clear mornings. The sky – blue (nearly startlingly so), the pale white clouds, the yellow almost white sun. It promises a warmth that is not delivered, but there is something else; morning as awakening, as slipping out of the lazy warmth of sleep into a day of hazy words. Words spoken, read, written; our – yours and my – lives are shaped of words, tumbling from page and lips into the cold breezes that wrap about our legs and redden our faces as we speak softly.