Pockets of purple crocuses on a bare meadow. The first whisper of pink in the trees.
I don't like to think of the path as a dead-end, because it brings me to a place that's very much alive, full of sunlight on rocks and the slosh and smell of lake water.
On a warm winter day he sits bare-legged by the lake and types on his laptop.
The turtles clinging to the fallen branch look like fat brown buds.
She doesn't keep anything she draws, whether it's abstract shapes or an absent-minded lady or a generous bouquet of flowers. She signs her name on the drawings and leaves them on the table when she's done. This time she gives me one of them as a gift; the rest can be marveled over or binned.
In the azalea pond the fish swim in the reflections of trees.
In the reading room the austere portraits don't look at you; they pretend you're not there.