Very little happening here.
Sometimes my life feels about as blank as the pages of the little book
I bought in which to create music.
Hours outside my home are spent either in the Special Care Unit
where my mother resides
or on the road getting there.
The Scene in our Garden is bleak.
It vacillates between the enchanting beauty of new-fallen snow
and its disturbed, dreary aftermath.
Our cars' shines are quickly dulled by the disgusting residue of slush.
As you can see, my enthusiasm for winter peaked LONG ago,
and while at home, I read. Mostly old books.
Many of them books of the seasons.
