re-birth of a gingerbread man

Grief melts away
Like snow in May
As if there were no such cold thing.
Who would have thought my shrivl'd heart
Could have recover'd greennesse? It was gone
Quite underground

And now in age I bud again,
After so many deaths I live and write;
I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing : O my only light
It cannot be
That I am he
On whom thy tempest fell all night
" The Flower" by George Herbert

there are few things that never cease to inspire me: autumn leaves, an old couple sitting hand-in-hand on a wooden swing, the oak trunk, whisperings of nature, courting birds....
somehow this poem, together with Stravinskys' "Apollo- the coda" usher in a new season to my heart.

Look outside the window ! the grass are greening, the flowers are budding, my guppies are flapping their tails like crimson spanish skirts... if seasons could paint our souls.