Prologue

It begins with the trees. Every year, in May, with the trees; with the mind moving the trees. Moving me.

   It begins every year in May. I cannot say exactly which day except I know that every year, when spring is thick in the foliage, so thick I forget that only three months before the trees were spindly impressions of themselves, I am moved again. The wind in the trees moves me, refreshes me, reminds me of something far deeper then wind and trees and leaves and green. So let us say it begins on the first of May.

   That’s the day I notice again the poetry in everything: