It is a time of being lured outside by light, birdsong, and tender shoots—all that is new and full of promises not yet articulated. But still my writing space is here just on the threshold, looking out, letting the light come seeping in,
letting my thoughts venture along that path then back inside, rummaging drawers and old notebooks, playing magpie, filching whatever bright chancy things happen along.
image: Henri Le Sidaner, Petite porte de Trianon
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