It is. Much as I grumble about the chill on my bare feet as they pad from bedroom to bathroom to terrace. The fog is just lifting, and the struggling rays of the sun are piercing the smog and desolation of a wintry morning. The weather . . . I could write for a lifetime, or merely sigh.
I miss leaves turning all russet and gold and falling. Whole avenues on flame.
They are stringing the lights all along Park Street. My mind takes countless jaunts in the crisp air - flights of lucid clarity.
Had written a poem. In fact thousands. All in my head. Something, something elusive is lost every time I put the limpid lines in black and white. Like water cupped in your is never like the dark profound depths of the lake in which you had dived.