How can it be that the memory of Winter slips so quietly from the mind? Was it really here? Or was it a dream? And in that dreaming, was there a life awakening? I will miss you Winter. Time of quiet. Time of reflection. For the time of doing is upon us. There is much to do (about nothing?) in Spring.
But look, someone has a jump start on me. How can this be?
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; ~ Shakespeare