In a word: April.

Soul singing and impromptu musicals in London streets prompt the posts that Maura hates.
Poulet piquant? Oui, oui.
Handing out numbers and daisy chains with equal proportion, here in London there is no lonely wandering.
I climb the countryside and fall as often as not, but no matter: his hand seeks the small of my back regardless.

Spring's here.
Sweet grass and dark chocolate, cucumbers and fresh avocado and the last good peppers roasting, cooler nights for bogging down with friends in the corners of cafe booths.
The sweet thrill of the market throng, a ring of smoke ahead, cobbed corn and jacket potatoes, flamenco lessons in the big City.
Kite-flying and watermelon squash, peanut butter and honey breakfasts, bees bumbling beyond bedroom doors.
The ping of rain on my window, the view from this library, the good ache in my heart when I think that my home, now, lies in so many places, and all of those places have their own passports.


These times make me laugh. Something's coming, something good. I dare not tell it to sit still or to stop dreaming or to fold its hands.