In green beginning of our (anybody's) spring no one imagines quite where daffodils may suddenly and white appear. Even small promises are kept; we (every anybody) ought to be in love perpetually. Then summer seems predictable; the wren wings in, nests, chirps relentlessly all day, flys off. The lush woods, edged in birch, crowds to the stone wall winning back an inch of earth. After the autumn leaves have burned themselves away the shocked trees trespass on the grey stark sky until snow has imagined branches trimmed in (almost) ermine, suddenly and white. Then green beginning come again like anybody's spring, all promises, all violets discovering daffodils, all you discovering me.