The first of a  most delicate greening has appeared in the valley.  A green white blossomed, washed in pale pink. The cold season was not so severe compared with others I've known but it was long lasted.  We were all made beggars for its end.

Like the rest of my tribe, ridiculous to be sure, this weight of desire creates a sense of complicity, of partnership, of possibly being a defining factor in outcome.  Jimminy Cricket singing when you wish upon a star.   Totally beautiful, completely irresistible and absurd beyond comprehension. The timing of the seasons is affected not in any way whatsoever however strong my desires may be.  All the same we have begged and pleaded our silent prayers for green grass, for daffodils.  A butterfly.

Desire.  My beloved Buddhists say release desire and find contentment in the acceptance of things as they are. But then we say a lot of things, don't we?  Things we say...hard enough, long enough...hoping they become true.  Incantations.  When fortune is with us they turn into poems, into song, into music.  Into art.  I've spent most of my life scratching incantations onto canvas.  Even the absence of incantation we've come to call abstraction leaves a ghost. A ghost named...abracadabra.

But the newly greened tree?  The soft early meadow?  They offer a return to essence.  An opportunity to simply be.  The edge of desire has merged with the sweet smells of spring.  I am soothed.