ALL POETS ARE THIEVES!!!

It is now spring, for the moment, at least. As symbol and surrogate hope for those invalided by the despair of the times (not just economic, spiritual too), spring bears gilded metaphysical fruits. Pick one, any shape, color, and texture. They are all succulent and pique the palate like no other food you might have tasted. The trees of spring grow in the Muses' grove. So no hard currency will suddenly fill your mouths or pockets; no make-over of your malaise will necessarily transpire. However, the fruits will inspire your art-instinct and develop it. 'Tis time for spring, aye, and make art, think art, and help plant the possibilities of it. Here's to spring, to you, to art-- a necessary triumvirate. J/C