Beneath this April’s full moon,an inch of snow fell, eclipsingdaffodils and tulips, their buddinggenius. Cherry blossoms wearwhite gowns now, shiveringas they somehow—is it possible?—become more beautiful, as if the cold’s shockrocks their simple, pink world,spurring metamorphosis beyondthe binaries of winter-spring,bleakness-promise, cocoon-wing. They move into a third spacehospitable for another lifemore rare, more raw.
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