Grass wears the crystals of its chilly possibilities, the tension of growing again. Midwinter: a dandelion raises a fuzzy gray head. Memories here. Don't slide on that sheet of ice: the pestilence of regret! A few more miles then circle around, returning to the heat of where we all began. Orpheus had to die: his music too pure, his lyrics too knotty. There was no leap, no miracle child, no genetic wonder; no nascent god who blossomed when he died.