Signs of Spring

I saw crocuses in a south-facing university garden, poking their sharp little selves out of the soil

I’m watching less TV.

I made asparagus with a blood orange-balsamic marinade for a dinner at The Playwright’s house, with a small group of bawdy irreverent queers.

Students are antsy, anxious, brittle, goofy, rebellious, or resigned to their end-of-term fate.

My 82-year-old Ukrainian lady neighbour emerged from her huge haunted house and exchanged bittersweet pleasantries with me on Dundas Street.

I held someone’s hand.

I’m drinking vinho verde, that soft sparkly feeling in the throat.

I’m considering baking a rhubarb-cornmeal cake.

Some birds are hanging out in the front yard, trying out a few crazy new tunes.

I’m planning to make my ma’s luscious potato salad for easter. I’m planning to share it with someone.

The light lingers, pale, delicate and persistent.

Happy vernal equinox.