Chiaroscuro palette filling the horizon this morning – a dozen greys and twenty shades of white plus yesterday’s leftover blue – major triads of heavenly light in rugby scrum – and no sane man would bet a dime on this game’s outcome. What is certain, though, is the lengthening of days. Shards of eternity fleck the stones in my garden. Some winters my wits are whittled away by the sharp end of grey. Comes the end of melted snows though, I can certify that in cream-white flower petals summer moonlight lies dormant [for weeks at a time] waiting to radiate – like rhyme – and spill some major beans, such as there is no other [alter? after? altar?] life than this. Usually such magnolia truths are whispered, before some sweet April breeze flits by with a kiss.