PAUL CHRISTENSEN

I've got sprouts in the little flower patch under my bay window, still curled up like Dead Sea scrolls, afraid to inch up much further because the frost is still hovering over us at night. But nothing can stop spring from pushing and urging, nudging and cajoling even the most timid flowers from showing their pubescence. The sky is a stoic blue, hard as a marble, with little wimpy clouds that carry nothing more than a few regrets from a dying winter. We're here, right on the p